


Spark for a Spark

by OptimalSagacity



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Comfort, Developing Relationship, Eventual Romance, Fluff, M/M, Rebel Orion, Sexual Content, Sexual Interfacing, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-04-27 20:10:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5062396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OptimalSagacity/pseuds/OptimalSagacity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Gladiatorial Pits of Kaon is home to many mechs who have been pulled into the glorious cycle of combat. Megatronus has been in the system for as long as he could remember. A young mech that goes by the name of Orion Pax finds a way to free him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arena Etiquette

**Author's Note:**

> Story has been edited, and updated! My apologies for the incredibly overdue update! It has definitely been too long!

His objective was straightforward, and made even more so as his bristling opponent took a swing that struck him hard, cutting far too deep for comfort into the silver gladiator's reinforced shoulder plating. It was the brute force of the undignified fighter (announced on the loud speaker as Ptolemus from some lesser known city) and not the aggressor’s evident lack of finesse, that did it. The heightened sensors imbedded under the thick armor of the wounded mech’s shoulder armor sung out in searing pain, and spurred the seeker to be more cautious when the next move was initiated. He ran his glossa over his upper derma, and meticulously watched his grounder opponent.

Ptolemus, towering a full helm over the seeker, had obviously matured where an aptitude for strength was first in mind; his form sported countless mods that accented his original frame size, successfully creating a titan to behold. From what the seeker could see, he supposed the mech was a truck type of sorts. Truck type mech specifics evaded him, and overall, he found no interest in identifying the mech past the title ‘grounder’. It held no significance to him, regardless, considering he was out to kill the mech. The blue, and violet mech’s large engine roared, stirring the dry dirt on the floor with the vibrations. The seeker felt it strongly in his core, and noted the way it travelled in waves up through his spinal struts. The formidable, and strapping Ptolemus was nothing but a youngling, the seeker observed. The semi obtained a fighting style that was unsure, and heavily dependent upon the fury that shed from his armor like coolant, which the silver gladiator felt distinctly in the thick EM field which was insistent in its attempts to smother his own. It had caught him momentarily off guard, which in turn had left him vulnerable for the nanosecond that the glitch had shoved his blade in for the lucky hit.

Energon was hot as it trickled from the fresh wound in the flier’s shoulder and down the contours of his intricate plating, plunking to the gritty floor where clouds of dust swirled around their pedes. It was gritty in consistency, and quickly made itself a nuisance, clogging their dampened seams, and choking their ventilation. That would take megacycles to clean later on (for the surviving mech, that is). The silver gladiator held his glossa snuggly between his pointed dentae, warding off any thoughts reminding him of the throbbing in his shoulder. Coolant rolled down his chassis, intermingling with his shed energon. Steam billowed off of his overheated armor in copious amounts. He sized up his opponent once more, shaking off distracting sensations that reminded him of the laceration that would be one more mark of his survival in the ring—the Pit that hosted slews of barbarous mechs in its past, where only one would walk away the victor. He was only ever in the fights to the death anymore—there was no friendly combat left in store for him.

The seeker forced his pointed shoulders back in a fluid motion and assumed a taller stance, planting his pedes firmly into the ring’s grimy floors. He was a strategist, stalking the callous signature of his opponent with keen optics, and an accute sense of awareness. The areas of combat in which the other mech lacked was blatantly obvious to him—the hulking bot was all brute force, eying him with blazing golden optics that reflected his naïve certainty, blades jutting from his thick wrists like gaudy, malformed appendages that didn’t belong on his frame type at all; waves of cocky assertion lapped at the silver mech's armor as a prequel to the grounder’s plans to strike. It was these fighters the seeker had confidence he could take down in a breem or less. The seeker was no savage, but an esteemed, lethal machine to be reckoned with in this ring, in which he had been shaped into the mech he was this solar cycle. Ptolemus would be the one to fall, the seeker decided without a doubt in his CPU. The odds were in his favor.

Hundreds of thousands of vocalizers filled the air around, a chorus of resonating, adrenaline-piquing harmonics for the large, silver seeker. His fans screamed loud in warning as he took in the uncoordinated Ptolemus, circling him like a primal cyber-feline, hackles raised. He caught frequent chants of his designation in the crowds, like sweet, satiating whispers in his processor, urging him to surge forward and bring down the truck mech in front of him. He clenched and unclenched his clawed servos in anticipation for the opportune moment. Temptation was an ever present factor, and raw desire bubbled up within him, pleading with him to latch onto Ptolemus with his bare servos alone. The rational side of his CPU won over in the end. The blade tucked away in the transformation seams of his right arm came together in a threatening point, replacing the servo that had been there nanokliks before. He caught the baritone chuckle of his opponent, inciting fire in his veins.

“Laugh while you still can.” The seeker growled out over the chaos of voices and the sound of his own spark thundering in his audials. His vocals were roughened from exertion. Coolant dripped into his optics, and he shuttered them to clear his vision. His cables coiled and tightened beneath his plating, readying for the moment their host needed their quick retraction or accommodating stretch to protect himself. He righted his stance to match Ptolemus’ own, and locked eyes with the grounder who had a smile that spread from audial to audial. The seeker felt the EM field of his opponent prod at his own, and grunted in disgust.

“I would say the same for you. You sound so sure of yourself,” Ptolemus rumbled, eying the seeker with energon-lusting optics. He had heard enough about the gladiator to know he was supposedly a ‘god’ in the ring, but all he had witnessed so far was that the mech in front of him was just as average as any other he had ever fought. He outweighed the silver flier, pressed him for endurance that he could tell was waning from the way the seeker’s vents ran on overdrive, and had left him with multiple wounds that gaped, close enough to his throat cables that the seeker should be feeling the effects of energon any klik now. “How ‘bout you _shows_ me instead of talkin’, pretty mech? Gimme reason to b’lieve the rumors. I need convincin’.” Ptolemus sneered, licking stray coolant from his dark dermas.

The seeker’s shoulder plating flared out, regardless of the pain that lanced through his frame like an energon whip at the motion. As much as he drank in the adrenaline spreading like a wildfire through his veins, the silver gladiator had experienced enough of Ptolemus. _Pretty mech…_ The silver gladiator was content to cut this short for that comment alone. Speaking during a fight might have been unprofessional, but now, it cleared his helm enough for him to see this had dragged out far enough. He was prepared to end this.

“Cease flapping your glossa, mech. Bringing petty taunts to a fight to the death only reflects your own inexperience,” the seeker hissed, and made a move that would bring the fight back into action.

“All I hear is simperin’, empty threats!” Ptolemus barked out a roar and swiped out for his evasive opponent, connecting solidly with his side—only to feel the white-hot bite of a blade against his forearm. The grounder’s optics widened as his arm cables stretched thin under the heavy edge of the blade, splitting under its unyielding pressure and sending energon spattering as the cables finally snapped. A yell that overpowered the cacophony of vocalizers swarming the charged air ricocheted around the ring as Ptolemus’ left forearm was severed. The crowd members, the macabre connoisseurs they were, watched the limb collide with the filthy floor with dark mirth welling up in their sparks. The answering roar from the crowd gave the seeker renewed confidence, and he immediately readied himself for another attack.

“ **Frag you**!” Ptolemus bellowed, nearly frothing at the mouth in his rage. There was so much of the mech everywhere, and no matter how the slighter gladiator evaded the grounder’s blade jutting out from the wrist still intact, he could not escape the frame that was set on blotting him out. The seeker growled out his own wrath, high on adrenaline and sickly sweet endorphins activated by the stench of energon being spilled steadily now. Ptolemus’ wound painted the ground in messy indigo splatters, and some of the hot fluid made its way onto the silver gladiator’s armor with the grounder’s flailing attempts to lash out, staining the seeker’s marred plating further. The seeker curled his upper derma in disgust.

Ptolemus took no time in deciding his next plan of action—he charged the silver seeker, thick blade held out in front of him, the edge gleaming under the harsh lighting above. It was aimed high enough so that it came at the seeker at the height of his throat cables. He met Ptolemus half way, throwing the brunt of his weight forward, and into his own blade, which met his opponent’s with a ‘crack’ that travelled through both of the mechs’ frames. The flier’s pedes fought to remain planted in the dust beneath them, and he found himself being forced back, slowly but surely, towards the circular parameter of the ring. The seeker worked his way in to take a swipe at the grounder’s abdominal plating, but was met with the leaking stump of Ptolemus’ arm hitting him back so that his spinal struts slammed against the ring’s parameter. He figured two things— _one_ , he was now posed with the fact that the truck had an opportunity for an easy hit, considering his vision was swimming, and two, the mech had no tact. The silver gladiator spat his opponent’s energon out of his dry maw, and caught the blade that had been intended for his chassis.

Ptolemus didn’t like that. He used his bleeding excuse for an arm to his advantage, and slung it anywhere that would give him an opening to strike. The seeker was slick in the ring, true to his form, but he was getting sloppy as he was cornered. Ptolemus jabbed his severed forearm into the silver mech’s abdomen, and slipped his bladed arm around behind the seeker’s back to get at the sensitive cabling that controlled a fighter’s dexterity, determining so much in the ring. Movement came from the core and spine, Ptolemus noted as he sliced through the thick, pliant, left-most spinal cable, reveling in the snap that followed soon after. His satisfaction was momentary, bashed literally by a spiked fist sailing into his jowls, and a harsh wail to back it.

The seeker reeled in horror as his left spinal connector hung loosely, unnaturally down his back plates, dangling, and dragging in the filth at their pedes, sparking as it made contact with the unholy grime. He didn’t let it distract him long, though, as it was pivotal that he regain focus. The injury was more painful than most of what he had experienced in this ring, considering most mechs hadn’t gotten in such a critical hit on him.

 _Careless…won’t happen again,_ the seeker thought disdainfully, as he felt the excruciating pain dull into a burning ache. He sent his fist again into the side of Ptolemus’ helm, reveling in the way the metal dented inward with the impact, and watched the oaf stumble to the side, only to catch himself at the last moment with a shake of his helm. One of his honey colored optics had shut off, and had started leaking energon—probably from the first hit the seeker had dealt. The silver gladiator shook his left arm restlessly as Ptolemus prepared his next move, realizing in increasing trepidation the numbness that had begun to set into his cables on that side of his frame. He would have to end this quickly in order to secure his victory.

“Come! See what you can do, fragger!” The seeker spat, wiping at his energon-dampened dermas, clearing the congealing mess off with the back of his left servo, eager to implement whatever was needed now to bring Ptolemus to his knees. If he could stave off the spreading numbness to his left extremities, he could bring this tidily to a closing point. Ptolemus took the bait, running at his smaller opponent and successfully pinning him up to the ring’s parameter with the blunt edge of his gleaming blade. The seeker was surprised to find his pedes dangling at least a few feet above the ground. He could work with this. He kicked out at Ptolemus abdomen, and felt give under the heavy blow. The grounder grunted, and offered the seeker the opportunity to use the wall at his back for leverage.

He grabbed onto the stunned Ptolemus’ chassis plating with his clawed servo that was quickly losing sensation, successfully hefting his weight up so that he straddled the truck mech’s waist (he ignored this fact in favor of looking ahead towards the end goal), and readied his right arm which bore his blade. He moved his hips, positioning his weapon above his helm in a fluid motion that tried his balance, but took no more than a nanoklik. The next moment the seeker used to butt his forehelm into Ptolemus’ own, and quickly powered his blade through layers of living metal, passing throbbing, energon-thick innards and reaching towards the most critical piece of anatomy the Cybertronian frame possessed. Midway through the reach, the seeker’s blade split apart, and folded back into the silver arm plating immersed deep in the grounder’s chassis, increasing the frequency of the grounder’s vocals as he screamed, making way for the servo that grasped the prize securely—and wrenched it free from where it was connected by slews of sopping, anatomical paraphernalia.

Ptolemus staggered back, his leech of an opponent still scrabbling for purchase against his chassis. The seeker was set on extracting his forearm now, along with what this battle had rewarded him with. It pulsed, and sparked in his grip, charging the energon around it, and causing the hot liquid to pull his arm further into the chassis rather than out. _Enough is enough_ , the seeker grit his dentae, and pulled with concentrated force to dislodge his arm from the sweltering, narrow cavern that he had drilled in his opponents frame. Ptolemus fell like a stone against the grime-covered floors of the pit, and with the sound of his frame hitting the ground came the ecstatic cheers from the crowds, chanting the victorious seeker’s designation as the mech in front of him began the process of dying.

 _MegatronusMegatronusMegatronus_ , they yelled out, causing the seeker’s spark to do flips in its casing as he looked into Ptolemus fading optics, and back down to where his arm was still buried within the slick depths of his insides. The sweet lies were that once a mech was down and wounded, his death followed promptly on his heels, swallowing him up like some hungry, yet merciful beast. The silver gladiator recognized the false information early on, and had felt so sick after the fight he had discovered it, that he had emptied his fuel tanks soon after returning to his quarters. He had known he was killing—it was a given at the time Sargas had assigned him to this area of pit fighting, but he was unaware that death was such a strange, unpredictable kind of thing. He didn’t know that when a mech went down, he sometimes forgot who he was, and started pleading for mercy, optics wide, and fearful. He hadn’t known that the crowds lusted as they did for raw power, and dirty plays, as he recalled the solar cycle he was voted to kill an opponent who had given up halfway through the fight. It felt wrong to go all out on a mech who was backing down from him, and even worse to kill him as he pressed his forehelm to the ground and shook…

Megatronus grimaced, and gave his servo a good pull, reveling the length of his arm that was painted in his opponent’s life fluid, and finally releasing his servo from the supine frame with a loud, wet squelching sound. He held up the still glowing spark for the bright lights, for the cameras, for the macabre fanatics, and didn’t glance back down at the still form of Ptolemus.

By the time he was actually ushered out of the ring, energon had congealed in the seams of Megatronus’ frame. The cable that had been severed hung loosely from his lower spinal connectors. His back, and left arm were now without adequate feeling, and the sensors prickled as they attempted to re-calibrate without any reliable source of connection. Voices still rang out randomly across the auditorium, as audience members indulged in the fruits of their successful bets by indulging in gambling, and pricy highgrade. Flashes of recording devices blotted his peripheral vision as he walked none too hurriedly out of the pit. He had little reason to hurry this along, and his wounds were successful in slowing him now. A team moved out the opposite side of the ring to retrieve, and remove the graying shell of Ptolemus left lying in the dirt, now caked with his own spilledenergon. The seeker had the spark case clenched in his servo still, acknowledging his outright inconsideration for the dead. Megatronus was unsure why he was still holding onto it…it served no purpose to him now, but nonetheless, he gripped the dimming spark, and walked into the doors leading out of the pit.

Megatronus didn’t offer a glance to the bystanders in the hallways. He shook off the heavy feeling in his left servo the best he could as the numbness was set on deadening his limb, and neck cables. He made his way to the medical ward, where he was met with the familiar sight of a red, and silver doctor. The glossy mech beckoned him further into his chambers, concerned golden optics taking in his battered frame. He slid the door shut, and locked it. The medic knew the tendencies of gladiators even better than they knew themselves. It wasn’t unusual for cheats to slip toxins into IV lines of their competitors. For this particular reason, Megatronus used to fidget as the doctor took measures to replenish his fluids after his fights—but that was then. The medic put a steady servo on Megatronus’ shoulder, and walked him to the berth surface as he had done countless other times before for the fighter. Megatronus slumped onto it, forgetting about his back injury, and found himself perplexed at his inability to lean back. The doctor was equally as confused.

The medic vocalized, coming to address the gladiator’s discomfort. “Easy, mech, _easy_! This fight did a number on you. Let me—” the doctor paused midsentence as his leg was brushed by something hanging from the berth. “What in Primus' name…” his honey colored optics widened when he looked up at the frame on the table to which the dangling cable was attached. “ **Megatronus**!”

“Razor?” The seeker asked almost lazily, the adrenaline dissipating from his frame as quickly as it had come. Here he was permitted an instant of respite (usually, when the medic didn’t get his cables in knots), and he had no formalities to keep up.

The pale face of the medic was marred by the look of exasperation that voiced a silent ‘ _are you kidding me_ ’ to the seated gladiator. As a mech from Iacon, he was considered young for his occupation, but what he lacked in stellar cycles he made up in skill. He also had fiery temperament to back him, which began to show in his warm optics which were trained on Megatronus’ own tired crimson ones.

“How in the Pit did you manage to completely sever your left spinal connector?! Primus, the audacity!” Razor pinched his nasal ridge between his thumb and first digit. “Do you know how fragging hard those are to repair? Well, do you?!” The medic hissed, clearly peeved (but more than slightly concerned at the injuries he was seeing). Megatronus usually inflicted the damage, not the other way around.

“No utter clue, doctor, but taking into consideration my audials are ringing with your fury, I conquer it must be extensive.”

“Slagging right it is—and with all these other wounds littering your frame we’ll be here for the rest of the solar cycle, and on into night. On your front, Megatronus.” Razor’s golden optics were sharp with the issued command, although his servos itched to help the seeker as Megatronus grunted, situating himself as he simultaneously worked to avoid further damaging his own fritzing spinal cable. The urge won over.

“ _Here_ ,” Razor said tersely, and with gentle servos untangling the thick, supple wire from under Megatronus. “I need a full scan. Then we will proceed with disinfecting, and patching.” The medic brushed his fingertips over Megatronus shoulder plating as he accessed the controls to the overhead scanner. It whirred to life in a matter of nanokliks, and a blue light fell over Megatronus’ frame. The silver mech sighed as his cables loosened as he lay on the medical berth surface. Razor clicked his glossa.

“You’ve got numerous wounds, and they aren’t petty either. Who’d you go up against that was able to scrap you this badly?”

“So I do. A hefty semi-truck model—went by the designation Ptolemus. I came out on top, didn’t I?” Megatronus quirked an optic ridge at his medic, who was preparing the needles, and numerous other medical paraphernalia. Razor huffed.

“I haven’t seen you come into my office in this condition in ages. I’d say it was a fairly matched fight.”

“There was a size advantage in this fight—”

“You’ve never let that deter you before,” Razor commented, snagging the seeker’s forearm with just an ounce more care than he usually offered and pressed an IV needle smoothly into the soft joint where the elbow connected. “Maybe you’re just becoming careless…”

At that Megatronus chuffed, responding chastely with ‘ _I survived, careless or not_.’ Razor rolled his optics, tapping the IV fluids to make sure the flow was undeterred, and focused his attention back on his irritable patient. The seeker’s frame was coated in layers of dirt and dried energon that was both his own and his opponent’s. The Iaconian doctor could hear the grit in Megatronus’ transformation seams, and foresaw the future of his evening helping the gladiator clean out every inch of his frame. The extent of his injuries made Razor cringe now that he really got an optic full of them, specifically the nasty split shoulder plating that graced Megatronus’ right side. Energon oozed lazily from the wound, dripping to the berth surface off of the cooling silver armor. First thing first, the medic snagged a rag and dipped it in cleaning solution, attacking first the areas around the most prominently bleeding injuries. The silver mech rumbled and heaved a sigh thick with fatigue. The Iaconian settled close enough to him that he could feel the heat from the seeker’s vents. It tickled against his servos as he wiped the stray energon that dribbled over the venting modules. Said vents hitched and Razor ran a servo apologetically over Megatronus upper back.

“Cold, isn’t it? Should have warned you first, my bad…” the medic’s servos worked upwards, tentatively testing out the feeling in the area where the left spinal cable had been cut. The ornery mech had sliced far enough that the plating underneath bore a deep score that hadn’t quite gone deep enough to leak energon. Resentment swelled in Razor’s chest. “So how did you come out victorious this time?”

“Ptolemus got a little too sure of himself. He gave me an opening by closing the distance and getting a little too hasty with his positioning; the fight was mine from there. I tore his spark out,” Megatronus said, his voice soft (but a hint prideful) after the exertion he had forced in the ring. Razor rung out the rag, and dabbed around the energon covered shoulder next.

“Oh? And he fell down dead after that, or is there more? Do tell.” The medic’s touch stung in the open wound, but Megatronus didn’t comment on it. Razor knew what he was doing, and he trusted the mech enough to do good by him.

“The half-wit was more of a challenge than I’d like to admit. Yes, as he should have died after I wrenched his spark from his frame. That was not a maneuver I ever want to use again. Too close, I tell you! I thought I would be stuck arm deep in that mech’s chassis even after his shell started graying.” Megtronus grunted. “I can still feel his energon in my seams.” He flexed the filthy servo which was sticky and itched with the sensation of drying, cracking energon.

“How pleasant. I’ll work on that arm that reached into the unfortunate mech’s internals next.” Razor said as he doused the cloth once more, squeezing from it the sludge brought in from the ring. The cleanser was murky in no time at all. “How are you feeling, Megatronus?”

“Honestly? Like absolute slag.”

“Experiencing pain with anything I’ve done so far?”

“Only slight—it has faded now. I am comfortable.” As if punctuating that, the gladiator hummed as Razor dipped the cleaning rag into the tight cables that surrounded his neck. It seemed that dirt crept into every crevice when he fought, and he couldn’t be more thankful that his doctor was so generous. Megatronus was special, to say the least. If the medic harbored affections towards any mech, it was this silver seeker sprawled out on his medical berth, at peace under his gentle servos. Razor was not a mech who gave freely, but there was a special place in his spark designated to Megatronus.

“Mhm that is good. Very good. You should not have been able to walk with the injuries you’re sporting, but at this point it doesn’t surprise me. Stubborn _aft_.”

When Megatronus just hummed softly in response, Razor sighed. The anesthesia was kicking in. He always made sure to lighten the gladiator’s dose (at Megatronus’ request stellar cycles ago when he first started his occupation in the pits) when the seeker had told him of his trepidation at the notion of being put under. Razor had respected his wishes and made sure the fighter was semi-conscious when operations were implemented. His optics would be half lidded and his expression blank, but it put the mech at ease to know he still had an ounce of control, even draped across a medical berth. At this point, Razor hummed and dallied across assessments, moving to the other side of the seeker and taking his energon stained claws to wipe them clean of the condemning evidence of a recent death. It was stuck in every crevice around his servo, all the way up and nearly to his elbow joint, thick and sticky. When the sterilization is taken care of to Razor’s standards, he tossed the rag into the dark water and prepares nanite gel for the open wounds. He acknowledged the need for more invasive measures for the disconnected cable and the shoulder damage, but he would get to that in time.

The medic lathered the luminescent healing gel generously over the worst of the wounds, mopping up any stray energon, and watching the IV fluid progress. Razor sighed, glancing over at the shut optics of a mech who could have had much worse at the servos of his opponent this solar cycle, but somehow evaded it. Again. He trailed a digit lightly over the injured back of the gladiator, and watched the instinctual twitch of the overlapping armor in response to his touch. Razor realized early on that the occupation he chose was not one that many mechs were equipped for. His stature and size clearly gave away his origins, and his plating was decorated in a very minimalist fashion for an Iaconian of his lineage. He was not small, but in comparison to the fighters, he felt miniscule. He couldn’t deny that he hadn’t been just a little daunted at the notion of being surrounded by the titans that partook in the pits—but after orbital cycles and then lunar cycles spent down below the city of Kaon, he couldn’t deny he adjusted well to the caverns. There was something about the underground that drew him in, and when he had met Megatronus, it had sealed the deal. The crimson crests atop his helm tingled with the changes in the air, and with the gently fluctuating EM field that remained relaxed. He prodded along Megatronus’ EM field instead of just skimming it with his own, and felt the seeker’s heady exhaustion clearly clouding it.

Megatronus was the epitome of power and indescribably imposing beauty…it was strange to call a gladiator such a thing, but the Iaconian marveled at the fighter. He found interest in each scar, and imperfection that decorated the well-kept armor (partially thanks to himself). Unlike the rest, Megatronus kept up appearances, even in the rings in which he fought.

“How you manage, I wonder.” Razor vocalized in a whisper. He bit his lower derma. Was it so very wrong to put into words for the fighter that he couldn’t stand the thought of Megatronus’ offlining? It was a very real and tangible fear (one that he did not think about if he could help it). It was spark-wrenching to witness a mech torn down time, and time again in the hopes that there was some way to earn freedom from the pits—with no knowledge that the gladiatorial pits were inescapable in the end (unless a mech was purchased, but Razor chose not to consider that portion of the equation). The high council deemed it all wrong, yet they were avid participants in the viewing of matches. Pity welled up within him for Megatronus. He was a good mech—too good for the Pits of Kaon. He snagged his tools off of a nearby counter and returned to his drowsy patient. He smiled softly at the curious red optics that cycled to focus on his form as he sat on the stool next to the berth.

The medic moved in closer to gain access to the disconnected cables. He activated the welding equipment and began the tedious process of mending the injured components of the fighter’s frame. It took a steady servo and at least two megacycles to successfully weld the two separate segments back together and another additional megacycle and a half to repair the damage inflicted upon the seeker’s shoulder. Razor ignored his own processor as it prodded at him to reach out to the large mech and provide reassurance through gentle touches and words he’d never dared to speak aloud. He knew it was foolish, and unreasonable to think in such a way, but nonetheless, he was tempted to express his emotions (as though they would somehow impossibly better Megatronus’ situation).

 _This is Megatronus, your patient,_ he chided himself as he sterilized and dabbed at the sealed shoulder wound. He loathed acknowledging the fact that his companion of sorts was condemned to a life under here unwillingly, unlike himself. He didn’t know what initially drew him to the mech, but he felt somehow responsible for the fighter. He wanted to protect the _Terror of Kaon_ , even if that meant picking up the pieces of the damage inflicted upon him after every battle. He recognized the tendency of the wound type to be irritating so he layered it with temporary mesh. Unfortunately, the gladiator would most likely have another fight scheduled in the next couple solar cycles, if not tomorrow. He clicked as he gathered the energon dampened cloths and mesh towels and tossed them into the corner with other dirtied articles.

Even as the light dosage of anesthetic wore off, Megatronus lay slack on the berth, optics shut to the medical lights that bore down against his now much cleaner armor. It had a notable shine to it. His vents cycled deeply in recharge. The Iaconian looked him over as he kneaded wax into a cloth, and couldn’t help the smile that crept into his dermas. The mech’s facial plates were relaxed and for once, at peace. As selfish as it was, he never wanted a solar cycle without seeing the gladiator in these tunnels. He couldn’t imagine life without the casual, slag-eating smile that happened to be directed at him on certain solar cycles. He rubbed his servo over an intricate, pointed shoulder guard to let the warrior know he was there before massaging the wax into the plating in steady circles. The fighter took in a large vent, and sighed at the sensation, Primus sent, and wholly appreciated by the sore, overtaxed gladiator..

Megatronus hummed at the pressure of the cloth as it moved along his newly mended, back and spinal components. It was not required of the medic, but he always did it for him anyhow. The little Iaconian was something else—he had never met such a bot. It was not lost to Megatronus that he had origins in high places…what had escaped him was the fact that he pressed every opportunity to provide niceties to him. He thought of himself well enough, as he had established himself near the pinnacle of the hierarchy in the tunnels of Kaon (at least amongst the other fighters). Yet, he never asked this sort of attention from the medic…never had he considered the notion. It was ridiculous. But here Razor was, polishing his plating, picking grit from his seams…it did not go unappreciated. It made him uncomfortable at first, the occurrence too foreign for the seeker to process, but time and time again having to return to the doctor’s quarters familiarized him with the young mech’s tendencies. He nearly purred as the medic pressed a digit into a sensitive spinal cable.

The Iaconian chuckled.

“Tell me if you can feel this along the left cable.” Razor vocalized as he delicately pressed along the welded cable. It twitched in response under his digits.

“I can feel it very well, yes,” Megatronus rumbled. The medic felt further along and brushed under the cable where the vital stabiler lie.

“And here? Can you feel it?” The Iaconian pressed just slightly more into the compressed component.

“Yes,” the silver fighter replied. He had no problem waiting for Razor to finish his tactile examination of the repairs. He watched the medic scrutinize the fresh welding as if he weren’t about to be reverted to his former state in the next upcoming solar cycles. He couldn’t help but find the Iaconian ridiculously meticulous at times. Razor’s amber optics flickered in concentration. His EM field pressed against his own in concern. He was about to inquire the medic on his overall uneasiness when a firm knock brought him from his thoughts. Razor seemed just as offset as his optics narrowed to slits. 

“I am occupied at the moment!” The medic barked out, expecting the bots behind the doors to back off like they usually did. Fate wasn’t so kind this solar cycle.


	2. Sealed

It hadn’t been easy in the least. Logically, he should have just followed the crowds, and walked out with the other bots who had witnessed the fight, but he had other plans. He hadn’t come in expecting it to be a simple task, but the nerves were starting to get to him. It was a ridiculous bargain to propose—no mech in the right mind would do something like this without being constantly weary of the High Council breathing down their necks for the entirety of their future existence. He figured it was worth the chance he might be found out—he had put enough dedication into timing, saving, and planning; so he waited. It had been at least a good thirty kliks after the crowds had filtered out. The cleanup staff had eyed him warily before the one in charge of the cleanup crew had asked him what business he had lingering around afterhours. He didn’t conceal his intentions in his explanation to the bot.

“I have no arranged meeting. I’m here to bargain for a gladiator, so if you could assist me, I would like to meet with the head of this organization.” If the wide optics of the cleanup crew weren’t an indication of the irrationality of his decision, he didn’t know what was. He had known in advance it wouldn’t do to try and slip under the careful optics of the mechs that operated the arenas. It wasn’t as it they were dealing in the most legal affairs, after all. Their vocalizations between one another reflected doubt, which had set him off momentarily, but he kept his EM field confident. Concealed. He would get what he came for.

“Come.” The dull, green-plated mech beckoned him and sighed in exasperation. The bot probably thought he was mentally impaired, and for good reason. He followed closely behind the strange mech, into the heavily reinforced doors that led to the dim underground. He could scarcely believe it. He kept his optics forward for the most part, but couldn’t help the occasion when his optics drifted to the foreign surroundings. He scanned the tunnels that held tall and powerful mechs with skeptical optics.

 _It will be worth your time…he’s here somewhere…_ he thought insistently, reminding himself how much he wanted this. He did want this. His spark was set on achieving this impossible goal at any length. He would not walk away without the mech he came for. He searched the EM signatures of the numerous fighters that passed by. He kept close to the hearty, roughened group of workers. Fighters sized him up with weary optics. Some of pairs of optics reflected hunger openly. The tickle of curiously prodding EM fields made his plating crawl, and retract in tightly against his protoform; he caught a few sneers and crude motions directed his way. He kept his helm up and focused his blue optics on the back plating of the maintenance bot in front of him. The armor was worn and paint peeled in numerous places. It most likely had been a rich forest green before it had faded into the matte hue that existed now. It had stellar cycles of scratches and irreparable damage. He wondered if the mechs lining the halls had anything to do with the head maintenance mech's sorry state. His EM field prickled at the change of atmosphere as the halls became more crowded. The fighters were much like mechanimals, pushing the limits of space and comfort as if they were driven by instinctual motives rather than the more cultured behavior of mechs.

“Hey, he looks like the same breed as Doc Razor.” A husky vocalizer bit into the air. It was close enough to cause him to flinch away, inciting dark laughter amongst the residents of the corridor. Optics bore into him as he walked past groups of chatting mechs.

“A pretty mech from Iacon, ain’t you?” Snickers ricocheted off the walls, accompanied by stray catcalls. He let a flare of warning taint his EM field in case a certain fighter got a little too confident. He wasn't one to resort to violence, but he no doubt would if a real threat made itself present.

“…why’s he here?” Voices merged together as he made his way between mechs.

“Megatronus, I’ll bet,” a vocalizer barked somewhere, the rest of the comment lost in the crowd of gladiators clogging the corridor with their bulk and size.

“No way, _him_? Are you kidding meh? That red, and blue high class bot? You don’t think he came to use him for…ya know…” Optics narrowed at him in speculation as he turned into yet another hallway. He kept a straight face. The murmurs didn’t seize, not in the least. If anything they increased in volume.

“I’m betting my next cylinder of energon he’s here to buy him offa Boss Sargas. He seems like one of those. Rollin’ in shanix, and whatnot.” The energy had definitely picked up since he entered the caverns. EM fields swarmed the place, pressing into his own inciting a flustered prickle under his armor.

“No way would he sell the _alpha_ of the pits—the frag do you take him for?! If he hears ya you’re scrap, mech.” The pronounced sound of impact met Orion's audials as they neared a door at the end of the main hallway.

“What objection would he have? The fragging Iaconians have enough currency to purchase Kaon twice over. If he can get a pretty piece for him, Megatronus is out. Prob’ly be one of the slave mechs on main street.” He kept his optics trained on the doorway.

“You sound so sure he’d want to ‘face with a mech that could offline him so easily. Wouldn’t face Megs if I was paid, I _sweartoPrimus_.”

He vented deeply, and prepared himself.

_Here we go…_

He entered a chamber with high ceilings and warm overhead lighting. There were tables and chairs that were occupied by mechs whose armor glistened with wax and bore no scars…gladiators, were they? He could have scoffed. It was the system that he hated with his whole spark. He felt contempt flush through his systems at the distinctly non-Kaonian bots that stared back at him with unimpressed expressions. Any sign of small talk immediately ceased at his entrance. The cleanup team who had led him in gave a salute to their manager and slipped out soundlessly. A particularly large-set mech who sat at the head of the table locked optics with him. The mech set down a glass of violet high grade. The glass clanked against the metal surface of the tabletop and he swore he heard it echo. All optics were trained on him.

“Who are you?” The obsidian bot inquired in a rather distasteful tone. His indigo optics held no hint of welcome, but rather they projected icy contempt.

“I am Orian Pax of Iacon,” he vocalized in a way that let none of his apprehension shine through. He glared right at the other bot. It was not in his interest to establish a pretense for the mech. He would not beg or grovel at the pedes of some corrupted official. The High Council no doubt had a grand time indulging in their desire to witness bloodshed. It was even lower to be the mech that ran the pits. This swindler ruled over the underground system…how interesting. They seemed more likely to sit in an office building in Iacon or Praxus picking the stale wires from datapads…it was insulting to the city of Kaon to have this bot in a position of power. There was a bitter taste on his glossa. It made him sick to think of these mechs idly counting their cubes of energon, filing away stray shanix while the gladiators fought and _died_. It deeply disturbed him.

"Pray do tell what your intentions are in coming here this solar cycle? You made no appointment, filed no order of interest in any of the services we offer, and if I do recall, I do not have an Orion on my list of bets to pay off,” the black bot spat, eying Orion, “So tell me, why are you standing in front of me?” The dark mech was too relaxed in that slagging chair. He thrummed his pointed digits on the armrest, the only sound that resonated was the continuous tapping. He had the urge to make it very clear to him that he was serious in coming all the way to Kaon. It had been an increasingly difficult trip to organize, as well as dangerous to begin with. He had made it too far to be turned away and _mocked_ by a mech who was tipsy and egotistic as frag. Orion stepped up to the parallel end of the table where no mech sat and placed his servos on the edge. He took a deep invent and released it. Slowly…

_Steady…state your bargain._ He swallowed and drew in his EM field. Let them guess his outer intent; pry at his processor bindings if they wished. 

“I wish to purchase a gladiator from you.” Faint laughter sprung up at random intervals of the room. The head mech was not one to join in the laughter, but a condescending smirk wound into his lip plates. Annoyance prickled along Orion’s shoulder plating.

The boss mech lifted and optic ridge. “Oh, do you now? Please, do specify _which_ gladiator of mine you wish to bargain for.”

“Megatronus.” There. He had said it. Unrestrained laughter blossomed across the room of seated mechs. It caused a flash of heat to sear up Orion’s spinal plating. He kept his faceplates neutral. The black mech held a servo up to quiet the room. The smirk had not left his dermas.

“He is not for sale, Mr. Pax.” The mech settled into his chair, a smug expression gracing his hard features, and kept his optics locked on Orion. “And even if he _was_ listed—what would you have to offer me that would measure up to my most profitable asset?”

Orion clenched his servos, and forced a gust of heated air from his vents. The smirk on the other mechs face finally began to dissipate in favor of observing his unexpected guest. _At long last,_ Orion growled internally. The boss mech’s dermas turned down into a slight scowl. It was obvious he felt he was left out of the sphere of knowledge when it came to his guest’s power. The black plated bot noted that his guest was from the city of Iacon. His armor was flashy and well cared for—the wax was visible on his armor, which was finely crafted to say the least. He narrowed his optics and settled his servos on the table. He’d let the young bot attempt to secure a deal for himself. It was something to pass the time, and rather entertaining at that to watch Orion flounder at his outright denial. What else did he have to do, after all? Watch the other slaggers in the room drink themselves to death?

“Well? I am waiting, Orion.” He raised an optic ridge, challenging the Iaconian to think quickly. Orion straightened up and his dermas pulled into a terse line.

“I have rights to a line of the most successful industries in Iacon. They are very profitable shares that were given to me at my sire’s passing twenty stellar cycles ago. I also have other separate properties allotted to me, which I can provide to you, as payment for Megatronus. They are spread out in various locations around Iacon—there are numerous industries that rest on the land, which pay rent to the owner of the properties. The earnings of the industries are essentially your own, if you so choose to demand higher taxes. It is your choice, how you manage them.”

The obsidian mech observed his guest critically. It was not a shabby deal…in fact it brought to his attention that he could have a chance at securing a significant seat in Iacon. He own countless lots in Kaon, and other cities that bordered it, but he had never owned property _in_ Iacon. It would be extremely beneficial, especially if the favor of the High Council ever wavered in their opinions of the Gladiatorial Pits...

“And you believe that my best fighter is worth your stated payment?”

Orion blinked and considered. No, he did not. Megatronus was worth more than every mech and pompous bot in the room, and more. Yet, to sway the deal in his direction, there was no room for his personal thoughts and concerns. Confidence would win him the deal; he was sure of it.

“Yes, I do. My deal to you is one that will last you far into the future. No one can match what I have given you. My sire inherited these properties from his sire, and his sire inherited it in turn from his own sire. It has not been released from the servos of my family line before, so the deal is exclusively mine. It is a binding agreement and cannot be retracted on my part; the court system is well aware of the exchange I have come to make.” Orion could tell that some of the bots in the room had become impatient, although none had dared to speak out of line. The black mech took his time. It was a petrifying silence, one that left the Iaconian’s spark swirling in trepidation and uncertainty. When the mech finally spoke, Orion snapped to attention.

“I have considered this, Orion of Iacon, but my question still stands—is my top ranked fighter really worth what you offer for him? He brings me more shanix than I know what to do with, and if we are talking energon...well, I couldn't be more satisfied. Will your legacy in Iacon be worth my time?” Orion didn’t hesitate to answer. He had come too far to doubt himself. He was so close.

"Most definitely. It is my understanding that these plots are envied even in Iacon. If shanix is your top priority, then you would be doing yourself a disfavor by overlooking this opportunity, sir.” The blue and red mech opened the bag slung across his shoulder and fished around for a moment. “I have every bit of information laid out on here—these are the main industries,” he walked over to the critical obsidian mech and watched judgmental optics follow his every step, “…and on these plots of land, there are the private properties. On it rests a favorite place of the senators to meet. Therefore, if currency is your primary concern, I have no doubt you will be satisfied with the income.” He laid the datapads down on the table and waited. 

When wasn’t he waiting? He had planned this orbital cycles ago, and even as he stood in front of the _executioner_ , he was still slagging waiting. The dark mech scanned the datapads thoroughly, sifting through every piece of information offered. He couldn’t deny that the deal was solid, not to mention truly profitable. The young bot wasn’t bluffing in that aspect. He set the pads down and took a sip of his highgrade. If the young bot was a wealthy one with good connections, he was guaranteed a good reputation in the city. He didn’t keep the gladiatorial rings afloat through his niceties and gentleness of manner—he was a successful con mech with charming exterior qualities that deemed him a higher-up in the optics of the cities he attended. It was one gladiator lost—one gladiator that could be replaced in a few solar cycles of bargaining with business partners a few cities over. Debt could be dealt with in time if the Iaconian was genuine in speaking on the profits of the agreement he was strongly considering making. He stood from his seat and gave a wry smile at the determination in the Iaconian’s cerulean optics.

“You have more determination than most, Mr. Pax. You do have the grants with you then?” The dark mech stood a good amount over his guest. There were a few disbelieving gasps and some irritable chatter sprung up around the room. Immediately the boss mech slammed his servo down against the table and the room was silenced instantaneously. He glanced over his shoulder and narrowed his indigo optics.

“Speak again, mechs, and I will personally escort you out of my lounge. My fighters would be more than happy to have a few _playthings_ to occupy their time.” It turned quiet enough to hear the squeak or joints and the huff of vents. He turned back to the red and blue mech awaiting his decision. Orion didn’t hesitate to retrieve the documents set in a small drive that he had stored safely away in his subspace. He handed the chip over to the taller mech, and explained to him the significance.

“They scan these in Iacon—for security reasons. Any mech who has permission to move through city has one. It’s a source of identity and property possession. Think of it as a built in key. It will adapt to your systems in no time at all, considering I have never used this one myself, and it will form connections to your CPU undeterred.” The boss of the gladiatorial rings turned the piece of luminescent hardware over in his servo and paused to hold it up to the light. It was a pretty piece, nearly see-through and finely wired—nothing like he had ever seen in Kaon. Orion watched the mech inspect the chip, and became delighted at the prospect of his bargain taking a positive turn.

The mech grunted. “I find your deal agreeable, Orion of Iacon.” The black mech held out a servo to his visitor. Orion couldn’t believe his audials for a moment, and stood shocked until he found that he could function to his servo. It was surreal as he sealed the deal with the bot who had been staring daggers at him not long before. He shuttered his optics and smiled softly at his success, not even bothering to acknowledge his distaste for the mech he had made the deal with.

“My pleasure, sir.” The wide-eyed occupants of the room weren’t any less amusing. The whole situation was unbelievable but he had done it.

“Mhm, please, call me Sargas.” The mech’s grin was denta-filled, and hinted at something sinister that Orion couldn’t quite pinpoint. “You…” the dark mech pointed to a burgundy seeker at the table who more or less been more interested in his energon glass than the affair going on, “…and you two,” he singled out a blue racer and grey and yellow sports car, whose optics widened a fraction at the attention, “…go retrieve dear Megatronus for his new _master_.”

Orion nearly balked at the word as it was spoken. _Master?_ He felt a grimace tug at his dermas, but kept a neutral face. The three designated mechs left in a hurry to get the warrior he had just bought. It was a very foreign concept, but he continually convinced himself it was for the good of the gladiator. He wasn’t like the other bots who had taken a fighter under their wing. Orion wanted the best for the Terror of Kaon, the epitome of raw and unbridled power. Behind the façade of wonderful and lethal strength and determination, there was a mech that no one knew. He wanted to get to know him. It was foolish and hopeful and plain…well, wishful. But in those fiery optics, Orion saw keen intelligence where others saw incentive to dominate. Orion saw a lust for the future that the won battles would deliver him in the end.


	3. The Perks of Anesthesia

The knocking led to a vocalizer blaring that Razor dreaded. “We do not need your services medic! Open the door or we will override your locks, your choice.” The doctor didn’t wait for another command to be issued. It was evident that the pit-spawned bot behind the door was the one he’d least see given any time of solar cycle, but he couldn’t just blow him off like the others either. Razor deactivated the security lock and opened the door. He glanced back and saw Megatronus sitting up groggily, optics narrowed at the unwelcome guests.

“What do you need if not my services, Lesath? Does Sargas need my assistance?” The Iaconian’s faceplates expressed his distaste for the all too familiar mech in the doorway.

A dark blue mech with bright amber optics shoved his way up to him and dared him to question their authority. “We’re here for Megatronus.” The three pairs of optics bore into the medic. Razor felt something within him shatter into a billion pieces at those four words. That was never a good line to be spoken in the underground. Never. _They can’t be—no, no they wouldn’t do that…_ He straightened his posture and glared right back into the personnel of Kaon’s gladiatorial system.

“He’s healing and he’s on his off shift—what do you need him for?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Lesath, the slender, red seeker forced his way past him and into the chamber. The others followed suit, not minding the furious medic that wormed his way back in front of them. He shot them all a glare fit to kill.

“Yes, actually, I’d like to. I am your fragging medic, and if I say that one of our fighters is not fit for combat, it should be _acknowledged _.” He clenched his servos and allowed his engines to rev in warning. The blue grounder rolled his optics and bit right back at him.__

“Cool your engines before you bust something, medic. He’s not going to be fighting; he’s got a one way ticket out of the system. Fraggable little piece of Iaconian came in and bought him off the big mech.”

Megatronus’ optics widened. _That can’t mean…_ His stolid demeanor broke for a click as he took in the information.

“That’s impossible…” Razor nearly choked on his words before he spoke them. The worker that lagged a little further behind piped up. His plating was a neutral toned grey with yellow accents. He scoffed.

“Are your audials functioning? He’s out of here, do we need to reiterate it? Time is wasting, Sargas asked for Megatronus, so let’s not keep him waiting.” The medic growled and snapped to attention as he noticed Lesath sifting through capsules.

“No, wait STOP—that is anesthetic, you son of a glitch!” His patience was wearing thin. He grabbed for the capsule in the flier’s servo but came chassis to chassis with him as he pulled it out of his reach.

“Precisely. Now give it to him. Unless you would prefer I do it, although I have to warn you, I was never good with operating needles.” Lesath smirked as he turned the capsule around in his palm. Razor snatched the fragile capsule from the fool’s servo and walked over to Megatronus. He turned back to them and set the small vial down.

“Why does he need anesthetic?”

The blue sports model stepped forward, clearly becoming annoyed at the amount of time his pick-up trip was taking. “Why so many questions? If you’re so fragging interested, ask Sargas when we’ve left! Now give him the slagging drug!”

Razor seethed as he connected the capsuled to a needle cartridge. This was not happening…they couldn’t take him away. Not like this. They were deceitful, lying—he couldn’t imagine what would convince Sargas to release his _most_ successful fighter. He couldn’t look into Megatronus’ optics as he slipped the needle into his protoform between his two major armor plates. He pushed the syringe down until the vial was half emptied. A rumble above him caused him to glance up at the gladiator.

“Razor, if I do not see you again,” the silver warrior hummed lowly, under his breath so only the medic could hear. Megatronus’ frame felt disconnected, having just come out of the haze of anesthetic not so long ago and now drugged once more. His optics narrowed at his guardians as he stood, only to sway on his pedes. He set a firm servo on the berth. “Just know you have my thanks...I wish you well.”

“It’s about slagging time,” the grey and yellow bot spat as he came around to take hold of Megatronus along with the two others. They grunted as the gladiator leaned into them unintentionally, the brunt of the mech’s weight on their shoulders. Razor stood dazedly, lost for what he should do as he watched the fighter carried from the premises of his office. So that was it—the mech he had known for stellar cycles was being carted off in the blink of an optic. His comrade’s backplates were all that existed for the short length of time they walked through his office and into the corridor, a fleeting moment that ceased all to soon. He huffed in disbelief as held the half emptied vial in his servo. He walked over and pressed the door shut. He dropped the vial to the ground and tried his best to ignore the empty feeling swelling in his spark. He blamed himself for getting so attached. He was the medic, he should know the basic rules of his occupation. He knew the feeling well. He shunned the hot and itchy feeling that invaded his optics, and resumed packing away his personal wax.

_I should have seen it coming…_

~

Orion nearly lost his footing when the mech he had beheld in battle not three megacycles ago was brought before him. The first thing to flash through his processor was concern. The gladiator was leaning heavily onto the other three bots for support and he looked rather dazed. There were a few hums of appreciation scattered throughout the space, and Orion felt a spur of possessiveness ignite in his spark.

“Is he alright?” The blue, and red mech asked, carefully approaching the silver warrior. The shiny, burgundy seeker adjusted the arm draped across his neck and shoulder.

“He’s under a light dose of general anesthesia for your trip. Saves you the pain of a lengthy explanation, and possible retaliation, yes? Boss?” The lackey glanced at the black bot for an answer to their current predicament. Megatronus swayed on his pedes, even with the others’ holding him up. The blue bot grunted, and shifted, shoving at his grey, and yellow partner in annoyance. He spoke tersely but quietly to the other behind him, gaining him a huff. While they squabbled discreetly, the obsidian mech walked over, optics on his drugged ex-gladiator. The two perturbed bots froze and established focus on their leader.

“Megatronus, I’ve got to say, I’ve enjoyed you immensely.” He cupped the fighter’s jaw with a clawed servo. “But you have a new master now—hopefully you’ll take better to him than you did to me.” The con mech stroked a thumb over the recently polished metal, and smirked. The medic had cleaned and waxed the brute again. It had always amused him—Razor’s not-so-hidden infatuation with the seeker. Megatronus’ optics narrowed slightly, even under the influence of the system numbing drug. His previous owner smiled deviously, soaking up the gladiator’s discomfort like a sponge.

Orion seethed internally as he watched the display. He couldn’t have been happier to have gone through with his plan of action. The lead mech sickened him. He recognized it was most likely intentional—a power play by the mech who had established twisted dominance over Megatronus. That fighter was leaving as soon as permitted, and not a second later. The Iaconian held his glossa with effort. Megatronus gaze turned fierce and his upper derma pulled up to reveal sharp denta.

He loathed the mech— _why in the name of Primus was his servo on his faceplates_?

This was incredibly low mockery and…his new master? Where was he? There was no doubt he would like him better than the current slag-headed, perverse manager of the arena. He scanned the room as best he could, even with the dim peripheral vision the anesthesia had granted him. He swore he would rid the black bot of his thumb if he moved it any closer to his denta. The grey seeker singled out the EM field that was most prominent; it screamed authority—more so than his former master in front of him. Yet it wasn’t forceful feeling. Within the strains of the field there was…concern? The blue and red plating stood out even through the haze. The stranger’s silhouette was lithe where his was fit and his plating smooth where his was eminent. He shuttered his optics in attempt to focus but deemed it pointless after his vision failed to adjust. Nonetheless, Megatronus took in what he could of the foreign bot. The dark plated mech in front of him too notice.

“No goodbye? Hmmm…” the boss mech feigned disappointment, “That’s too bad. I see you’ve caught sight of your buyer. Sweet little thing isn’t he? Although not as small as our Razor, is he now?”

He chuckled and patted the pewter grey mech’s jaw and waved a servo through the air. A growl left the woozy warrior’s dermas as his gaze bore into the obsidian fool. He really hoped the mech would meet him outside of the Gladiatorial Pits of Kaon and he’d give him a piece of his processor. If he hadn’t been too drugged to stand on his own, he’d have delivered a solid beating to the cowardly scrapheap.

“Help our guest transport his purchase,” he directed his order towards the trio that had led the fighter into the lounge. Orion had decided that he’d had his share of the dark mech to last him a lifetime. He approached the group of a little 'less-than-ecstatic' bots and Megatronus.

“My thanks again.” The Iaconian pressed, urgent to relieve the seeker of his old master entirely. The three bots instructed followed behind him, helping the alpha of the arena along with them. As they exited the room, the laughter of the pompous aft echoed down the hallway. Orion grimaced and forced the image of the bots servos on Megatronus out of his CPU. It wasn’t worth fretting over. He was getting him out now.

“What did I tell you?!” A vocalizer ricocheted off of the cavern walls. Curious optics of idle fighters followed the group of mechs, catcalls and whistles met Orion’s audials.

He paid them no mind. He continued down the hallway, taking the turn that they had in coming to the lounge. What caught him off guard was the door that slid open as he came upon it and the EM field that slammed into his own. He prepared to be attacked, as he spun around to face a mech who was slightly shorter than himself yet similar in stature. The strange red and silver mech seemed just as shocked to see Orion in front of his chambers. His yellow optics were wide and his mouth made an “o” shape as he took in Orion’s frame. His shock only lasted a nanoklik, however. Those optics narrowed at Orion. He wasn’t sure how to take the wave of disdain that was forced his way or the jealousy that bombarded his own field. He assumed it was their medic… _Rampage? Rhodium?_

What had the obsidian leader said? He couldn’t remember really…There was longing in the way the bot looked over at Megatronus before he glowered at Orion. The red, and blue mech couldn’t have been more confused. He felt it must have had something to do with a relationship between the two mechs, which left behind a twinge of guilt. He shook his helm and walked on without a word. There was nothing he could have done about it now.

The streets were lit up with road markers and the illuminated windows of skyscrapers. The hum of music and chittering of night-dwelling mechanimals were the most prominent sounds at this megacycle. It was a less crowded evening, most of the bots in town most likely retired to their shelters for highgrade and general relaxation. One of the mechs behind Orion cleared his vocalizer. He turned to offer his attention.

“So, about the directions to your place…we’ve been ousted for the night, so don’t feel obliged to _hurry_ or anything…” the red seeker placed his free servo on his hip and fretted. He immediately replaced the servo on Megatronus’ chassis as the gladiator slumped further forward. Orion considered for a moment.

“My bad—I’ve got an apartment in the eastern sector of Iacon.”

The burgundy flier made to move forward, only to be held back by the unsteady fighte,r and the other two who hadn’t dropped their earlier topic of dispute. He hissed out his displeasure and lost his patience.

“Now let’s not all move at once, it’s not like we have anything better to do. Hey! Loverbots, get your helms out of your afts, and let’s _move_!” The other two snapped to attention at that. The blue racer grimaced and turned to the impatient, winged mech

“How about we drag this out so Lesath has to wait to _grace_ Boss’s quarters,” the indigo bot smirked lecherously. The grey and yellow bot peered around his partner, pushing his annoyance aside to leer at the pompous seeker.

“Well, well, look whose turning twenty shades darker than his original hue—didn’t think it was possible.” The sports model chortled and he gripped the blue mech’s shoulder plating. Orion felt his dermas pull into a hint of a smile at the humor in the conversation, but had no intent on immersing himself in it. He had a task and until it was carried out, he wouldn’t recharge.

“Shut your slag-eating…” the seeker was cut off mid-sentence by the blue bot’s suggestive servo motion. It was all fun, and games teasing the flier until the grey and yellow mech hit his blue comrade’s arm plating to grab hold of his attention.

“Mechs, we’ve got a duty to fulfil here. We got a little off track didn’t we, sweetspark? We’ll be right behind you.” Grey, as Orion had deemed him in his CPU, gave the red seeker a look fit to offline a mech as he resumed his spot behind Megatronus. Blue seemed a little more at ease with his companion back on good terms with him. Lesath flicked his wings in annoyance, and huffed. The red and blue Iaconian nodded his approval, and turned to lead the high-strung group to the nearest transportation outlet.

It was late into the night cycle when the group arrived at Orion’s apartment. They received questioning stares and glances from passersby, but who wouldn’t have been in awe. The gladiator obtained a demanding presence, even in his drowsy state. He was truly a spectacle to behold. They stood in front of the final destination. The door to Orion’s apartment. He punched his code into the panel and turned the knob. It opened to his living space, the skylight above casting a soft glow on the floors below. Orion reached into his satchel and brought out payment for the trio that helped him to transport the fighter with little trouble. He slipped it to them.

“Your help was greatly appreciated. Here’s to help with transportation fees on the way out of Iacon. I can take it from here.” He nudged gently in the way of the red seeker and slipped his arm under the gladiator’s. The others looked doubtful he could take the seeker’s weight on his own, but he insisted. He urged the warrior to lean onto him, as he kept a steady servo at the base of his spinal struts.

“Our pleasure,” Grey signaled their leave as the others followed behind him. As Blue made his way closer, the sports car wrapped an arm around his waist.

Orion couldn’t believe it—he actually _had_ Megatronus.

He shut and locked the door once inside his living space. The fighter was not light, yet their frames were of similar proportions, so supporting him was nothing unmanageable. Orion’s strength was often doubted because of his lithe figure anyhow, so it wasn’t anything to be bothered by when the trio had given him a collective “ _are you serious_ ” sort of glance. He spoke to his new partner, well aware that he was not all mentally there at the moment. If he hadn’t been controlled in supporting the tall seeker, there would have been complications. It took Megatronus time to find his pedes, to balance himself out in the dim lighting of the complex, but that was alright. The owner was patient. He kept firm servos and braced his own frame to accommodate the disoriented, inaccurate movements of the former gladiator.

“Here, you’re doing great—just a few steps forward—just like that, perfect.” Orion realized just how crowded his living quarters were as he guided the mech through the dining space, around tables, and the stack of datapads he had forgotten to put back. He kicked himself for that.

 _Scrap! Could I be any more disorganized here?! Here Megatronus, trip on everything because I was too distracted to clean up. Slag it all, I’m such a bad host…_ They were close to the chambers that he had designated for the warrior orbital cycles beforehand. So close…

“We’re almost to your quarters. I set it all up for you a while back…it’s right over here, we’re going to turn a little right— _woah, wait…_!” He cursed his hastiness as the pewter grey seeker misjudged a step. Orion wasn’t quick enough to avoid the ‘crack’ of the fighter’s shoulder plates against the door frame. He caught the mech before he fell further, one servo on Megatronus’ chassis plates, the other wrapped under his arm. Orion felt awful.

_Stupid… _stupidstupidstupid_!_

“Primus, I’m so sorry!”

In response, he got only the slow shutter of drugged and hazy crimson optics focused as intently as possible on his faceplates. He was annoyed at the slagging manager that ordered him to be given the scrap. It disgusted him.

“I’ve got you,” he vocalized with a sigh, peeved at himself for being so reckless. He’d patch the damage up for the mech as soon as he became acclimated enough, or better yet, he’d take him to have it fixed at one of the repair shops in town. He bit his lower derma as he helped the regal bot to stand once more, and made sure to coax steps from the all but sleepwalking Megatronus instead of expecting them. Orion guided him over to the berth, and pressed the gladiator gently to take a seat. He understood the reluctance, with the lack of coordination the warrior had currently. But he could wait. He wanted to assure Megatronus’ comfort.

The purchase of gladiators was a taboo practice in his optics, which was why it had taken long period of careful consideration on how he would approach introducing the fighter into his new surroundings. The anesthesia did not help this pre-planned approach. It for uncharted obstacles and complications Orion hadn’t thought of before. He mentally kicked himself again, and helped the mech lean back into the pillows propped up on the headboard. The silver mech groaned, and the Iaconian hesitated for a moment. He met the fiery optics, almost as if he expected him to say something after the evening of his silence. He didn’t want to hurt him…

Orion adjusted the folded covers next to the gladiator, not wanting to intrude his personal space any more than he had to, and hurried out of the room to retrieve a glass of energon for him. He was back in a klick. He set the glass down on a bedside table, and caught the helm tilted in his direction, optics half-lidded and expression neutral. _He is there, behind the haze, the least you could do is give him a name and location._ The young mech chided himself, realizing how strange it must be for Megatronus.

“I’m sorry for this…that definitely wasn’t the way I wanted to have you see your new home. My name is Orion Pax, and we’re in East Iacon. I can’t exactly expect you to be okay with the way this turned out. I-I’ll be available for the night cycle, feel free to comm me, it’s open for you. So...uh, have a good night cycle. You are welcome to anything in the place.” The soft vent that came from Megatronus after he spoke was resolute—it was a lot like an acknowledgement, but Orion couldn't tell for sure.

Orion nodded, and made his way to the door. He paused.

“Recharge well, Megatronus.” It felt strange on his glossa; it was a regal name. He smiled like a fool as he headed towards his own quarters, nearly adjacent to his new partner’s own.


	4. Initiation

When he awoke, it was to those strange quarters he had witnessed through bleary optics last night. His CPU felt awful, pounding sharply as his optics adjusted to the foreign surroundings. He felt as though he had taken a direct hit to the helm in the ring; his temples ached something fierce. The groggy seeker lifted a heavy servo to his helm and groaned. What a turn of events… Megatronus contemplated how impromptu it all was for him—he pondered the fact that he’d have been preparing for a fight this morning, if not a long talk with his good-for-nothing slag heap of a boss addressing his performance in the pit. He was unsure of how he felt about the absence of normalcy now...a part of him was distantly grateful for the plush berth that formed to his frame, and the folded pile of silky sheets and covers his other servo met as he stretched. Megatronus was never more thankful than when he caught sight of the glass of energon on the berth-side table. He reached for it, but stopped midway, his CPU instantly alerting him to the possibility of an additive. The fighter hadn’t had a meal since the previous solar cycle’s early morning, but a mech couldn't be careful enough. He lifted the glass to his face and inhaled, searching for the telltale scent that he'd learned to pick out amongst the liquids handed to him throughout his life. He caught no such scent...only the fresh, dallying aroma of pure energon.

He lifted the glass to his dermas and reveled in the smooth, clean taste of filtered energon. It was silken against his roughened throat lining, having been used to thicker, grittier energon reductions in the Gladiatorial Pits. His master must be wealthy to obtain energon this smooth. He recalled snippets of the night’s megacycles, the most prominent of his memories being right before he slipped into recharge. The gladiator had roved his buyer’s smooth faceplates, and those prominent cerulean optics…such blue optics. He reminisced on what he could remember of his buyer's awkward introduction to him before he had left. It was interesting to say the least.

Immediately the warrior snapped to attention and backtracked—he was no naive youngling. Just because his owner had not drugged him right off the bat did not mean he was worth any ounce of Megatronus' time. The anesthesia most likely had something to do with how amiable his newly ordained master had appeared. He was most likely just as foolish as the rest of the upper class mechs who thought they could handle a gladiator as a pleasure slave. The back of his neck prickled at that thought. Megatronus decided he would keep his guard up, on the off chance this mech got any ideas. He was not completely insensitive to the mech’s hospitality thus far, but he knew deception well. He hadn’t made it this far in the Pits of Kaon by throwing ridiculously ignorant trust around. It would have been his downfall. To have any connection with another mech than an occasional, strictly platonic off-shift highgrade was suicide. That was, when they had highgrade…

The tall mech huffed and eased his way off of the berth. He was still rather disoriented, and his spinal connector burned something fierce. He thought about Razor as he carried the empty glass and walked to the doorway of his quarters. It wasn’t fair, the way it haunted his taxed CPU. The way the doctor’s face fell as they spoke of his leaving was sparkbreaking…he was well aware that the Iaconian harbored something of a crush on him as time went on, which was the exact reason why he had tried to distance himself from the hopeful mech. Megatronus had learned the pain of loss early on in his life, when his carrier offlined. It was a tragedy that had stuck with him stellar cycles afterwards. The gladiator wanted to think that somehow if he had been killed in the ring that Razor wouldn’t be as hurt than if he indulged those feelings that he could not and would not return. He turned the knob on the door and left his new quarters with caution. He shook his helm at the feeling of pity for the medic. He had respect for that mech. He knew it wasn’t ideal in that Pit, where the light of day didn't graze in the slightest...Razor was too good for that sort of place, and Megatronus could only hope the doctor would find his way out of those tunnels.

The apartment complex was brightly lit and excruciatingly clean...everything that Megatronus was severely unaccustomed to. He hadn’t caught onto his new master's EM field anywhere since waking up. He made his way into the spacious kitchen that seemed to go forever up into a tilted ceiling, opening into a circular pane of glass that allowed the light from the stars to spill in. He set his glass down on the counter. Megatronus spied a data pad on the island piece and picked it up. The screen brightened as he set a talon to it, and on it was a message from his buyer. Megatronus shuttered his optics and read.

_‘Megatronus,_

_I know you’re probably confused right now, so I apologize for my absence. I ran to the store to get more energon—I’m almost completely out. If you are in need of refueling, I have frozen as well as room temperature energon stored. Feel free to help yourself to it, as well as any of the appliances around. I promise to explain everything when I return._

_Orion Pax’_

_Orion._ So that was his buyer's name that he had forgotten in his drugged state. The gladiator read it again, for lack of other things to occupy his attention, and flipped it face down on the counter. It was absolutely not expressing any sort of good will, and it did not make the warrior’s eye ridges furrow in contemplation. That would not be the response of a mech that had, not a solar cycle ago, shoved his servo into a fighter’s chassis and pulled from it his spark to a simple note left for him on the counter of his new master's apartment. And it was not the reaction a cold, manipulative, and rumored psychotic mech would have. No, not at all. Megatronus turned from the kitchen and instead walked towards the tall windows that revealed a spectacular skyline. His optics were starving for foreign input after so long under the ground, and it was almost too much for him, taking in the expanse of buildings whose pinnacles brushed the feathery clouds. It brought upon the ex-gladiator a wave of nostalgia.

The flashback was acute. All of a sudden he was a sparkling again, taking nothing for granted and blinking his large optics curiously at all that crossed his path. The seeker barely had his second growth plates, and his protoform still peeked through the armor that had not yet expanded to cover his frame which had recently undergone a growth spurt. _His servo was in his carrier’s. The tall mech had his optics trained on something Megatronus was too slight to see, his helm barely surpassing the hip joint of his parent mech. His sire was meeting with the High Council, and therefor were escorted to the lobby to wait for the conference to end. He recalled the warmth of his carrier mech’s plating, and the solid connection between them that allowed him to feel at ease._

_“Up! Please, Carrier…” he had pleaded with the regal silver and violet mech, reaching for his chest plates which successfully eluded the seeker. The burgundy optics that fell on him were loving, and in a nanoklick he was swooped up in a sturdy hold and secured to his carrier's sturdy chassis. That was the first time he saw the skyline of Iacon. The city was as expansive as it was overwhelming. This was a sight that took the sparkling’s optics time to adjust to. It was a sight that he associated with his carrier in particular. This mech, and his sire, were the epitome of power in his naïve CPU, but as he took in the city scape, he realized there was much more. So much more than what he had ever known, just beyond the balcony…_

There was a distinct ‘click’.

Megatronus was drawn from his memory as the door to the suite opened. He turned around to meet none other than his host. The same mech that had tucked him safely into his quarters and provided him with a note, as if he owed Megatronus something. It must have been a ploy the seeker thought now, frozen in place under the gaze of his new master. The Iaconian nearly dropped the bags as he entered the flat, blue optics wide as he regarded the fully functional gladiator before him. Oh, and a sight it was. Megatronus was sleek and handsome, his silhouette carved out by the light blooming from behind him. He was the epitome of deadly grace contained in Orion’s living room. He traced and probed the edges of those shoulder plates meticulously with his curious optics and would have indulged in taking note of the lean, oh so compact abdomen of the fighter if he hadn’t caught himself. His processor functions seemed to stall for a moment, before he realized how he must have appeared to his guest. He pressed the door shut and locked it.

The silence was nearly palpable as the Iaconian made his way to the island counter, and set down the hefty bags he was carrying. He then turned his attention back to Megatronus, hoping he could keep the heat he felt ablaze his systems out of his faceplates.

Deep intake Orion…vent for Primus sake. He cleared his vocalizer.

“How was your recharge?” The red and blue mech had to make sure he didn’t stutter notoriously under the influence of those warm red optics, which were wide meeting his own. He also had to make sure he didn’t completely drown in them while speaking to the mech. He didn’t want to come off as encroaching on the other’s personal space (which he had probably already failed in doing). The seeker, on the other hand, was appalled by his new ‘master’s’ fluctuating EM field. It wavered somewhere between confidence and humiliation. It momentarily spiked the fighter’s curiosity, which quickly edged towards caution, and soon filtered into defensiveness.

“Well enough. And yours, Orion Pax?” Megatronus spoke, eyeing Orion while doing so.

The Iaconian shuttered those cerulean optics and fought back the wave of hopefulness that bubbled up in his swirling spark. _That voice…oh Primus above…_

“Eh, I recharged decently as well. Um, so I am aware that you probably have questions about all of this…” Orion walked forward to retrieve some of the offending datapads from the extensive stack on the floor. So much for calm and collected, the archivist thought, as he was fidgety as well as completely, and utterly beside himself with condemning thoughts. Megatronus watched the mech carefully as he retrieved an armful of the pads.

The dark tint along the other’s face was proof that he was having some sort of effect on the mech who had purchased him last night. Megatronus was unsure of how to react to Orion's approach in speaking to him, and felt his plating twitch at the notion of a well played act to undermine him. His shoulder plating flared slightly.

“Yes. Of course. I am surprised you would offer, my new master.” Megatronus bit out, optics narrowing.

 _There it is_ , Orion thought, pondering a good way to end the tension between them before it he worsened it. Orion paused as he reached up to file a datapad into the shelves along the wall. There was that word **again**. It lingered acridly in his processor like the after effects of bad energon. His optics widened a fraction in horror at the tone that had infringed upon Megatronus' vocals. He pushed the datapad in his servo into its designated slot and regarded the seeker with a guilt-turned expression. _There’s the complication that I should’ve seen coming. Frag...why the Pit did I not see that coming?_

“Megatronus, I am not your master…I am Orion and only Orion. I purchased you,” Orion cringed, and realized too late it was not an optimal choice of words in this situation, “…e-excuse me—I _secured your rights_ in order to guarantee your freedom. I do not expect anything of you in repayment.” Orion couldn’t help feeling a little trepidation creep up on him as the warrior’s optics narrowed. He had wished for this to go more smoothly, but he couldn’t blame Megatronus in the end if he pinned him for being dishonest. It wasn’t fair for the mech to be forced into a situation like this—or any situation where he was not made fully aware of the details. It put him at a clear disadvantage, and considering the society of the gladiators, a nicety could sooner be deceit. He honestly couldn’t blame the fighter for having suspicions.

“You lie,” that beautifully husky vocalizer hit the air. It would have spurred chills down the Iaconian’s spinal plating in any other situation. “You bought a gladiator to grant him a new life? That’s a new one—it’s not as if I’ve ever come by that one before. Try again.”

The Iaconian tucked the last datapad into its slot, and felt solemnity well up in his spark. It stung. He was an absolute fool to think he could capture the fighter’s trust so early on in this process—it was wishful thinking, and completely foolish. He shook his helm to override his own emotions in the face of Megatronus’ troubled CPU, giving the ex-fighter his undivided attention. The mech deserved it.

“I have no ulterior motives, I swear to Primus—” The red and blue mech was cut off by the seeker, who pushed back his armor-capped shoulders.

“None? Are you sure? Orion, Primus has nothing to do with this. Oh, it’s easy to lead on a mech with a CPU that’s taken enough blows to the helm, isn't it?” Megatronus growled between his pointed teeth. Orion shuttered his optics and considered in horror how easily Megatronus' accusations could have been true. He was unaware of what this mech had been through, and at a complete loss at how to respond.

“No, I-I made an effort to get you out because…because I thought you were brilliant!”

There was a pregnant silence that followed that statement. The fighter was not overly reserved; his ego was quite sizable, but hearing Orion fiercely defend his intellect stirred something within him. He wasn't sure if he liked it, exactly, especially considering the mech who had complimented him was not one he wanted to believe was genuine.

Megatronus’ dermas pressed into a terse line. “Let me get this straight. You worked to release me from the Gladiatorial Pits—a strange mech who offlines bots each solar cycle—all because you believed I was **bright**?” Orion looked away a moment, hoping to keep the conversation controlled. Megatronus deserved an explanation, or at least a word of truth from a mech.

“If I am to be completely honest with you, it was that and other things that I will reveal to you in time." Orion cleared his vocalizer. "I’ve been interested in you for, well, for longer than I can recall. I’ve heard about how you’re respected in the Pits and I just knew I had to get you out of there, you are the most inspiring mech I’ve seen. I assure you every word I speak is truth, Megatronus, and I will prove it to you...if you let me.”

The accusatory element in the ex-gladiator’s glare seemed to only increase at that as he took notice of Orion’s honest demeanor. He was quick to label in the gladiatorial rings, and it had become habit after so many stellar cycles. The mech obviously hadn’t been looking for confrontation, but Megatronus was too far into this argument to back out without more wounds to his already cracked pride. He flicked his line of sight away from Orion’s, and an emotion he was unaware he even obtained took hold of him. He loathed it. His CPU conjured up a cold exterior, one that had been utilized when the boss mech had been pissed off at the outcome of a battle, and couldn't help but shake the feeling he was about to blow things way out of proportion. It should have stroked his ego to have this sort of admiration from the Iaconian, but it only served to incite his growing trepidation. _What was this Orion trying to prove_?

"So you ‘saved’ me, Orion Pax. Should I be honored?" Megatronus hissed out, clearly unable to keep his temper contained. The Iaconian thought he was better than him, did he? If he had the notion that bringing him to his top of the notch flat would calm the seeker's ire, he was very wrong. Orion drew back, realizing the situation was definitely not about to go in the direction intended. He dropped his servos to his sides and fought to keep ahead in this battle of wits and reasons.

"I did no such thing! Saving you was not what I intended, Megatronus! I wished for you better opportunities somewhere that you wouldn't have to kill other mechs or be trapped under the rule of that greasy, half-wit mech that I gave my inheritance to get you out of that place..."

"Do you miss it?" Megatronus upper derma lifted in a snarl.

Orion floundered. "Miss what...?"

"Your inheritance that you _wasted_ on me?"

"No. I do not." Orion swallowed, keeping optic contact with the headstrong seeker who was bristling across from him. "That is not what I meant."

" _Isn't it_?" Megatronus tilted his helm. "Why you would be enamored with a mech that indulges in the practice of fighting to the death is beyond me, and what would you prove to me? What can you do to prove that this isn't for you, **master**?" The seeker spat, anger blotting the edges of his vision in deep purple hues. "I am not your master, Megatronus," Orion said seriously, not sure how to combat the raw aggression aimed at him. The silence that came after was even more uncanny than the rate at which the situation was going downhill. The Iaconian found himself asking himself if he had overestimated his abilities to handle a freshly retired gladiator. The way Megatronus flared his plating posed a challenge that Orion would never accept. Orion did not know Megatronus...he should have taken more precautions than he had... "You say that..." Megatronus spoke with passion laced within his words. "How many times have I heard that in my existence? Power is not in my servos, Orion, but I will not allow an upper-class Iaconian take away from me what I have rightfully earned. I did not need a savior after the stellar cycles I took attempting to conquer a system that was impossible to overthrow. I had unfinished business with the mech who ran the Pits, Orion, and I don't expect you to understand a bit of it. I don't know what you want to tell me, considering you know nothing of what I come from, nothing of my origin, other than the fact that I have killed more mechs than I care to divulge. I doubt your sincerity, Orion. _I really do_." With that, Megatronus passed Orion in a swift movement that caught him momentarily off guard, and he was left with the patched spinal connectors of the ex-fighter retreating into the hallway leading to the berthrooms. Megatronus' slim hips swayed to and fro with his determined strides, his spiked shoulder guards tense, and his servos clenched into fists. Orion's spark fluttered with unease as he watched him depart.

Orion wearily made his way over to the island counter to take a seat. The red and blue mech supposed it could have gone worse...it could have gone a lot worse. He couldn't help but feel like he had made a grave mistake, now that he considered the details. He contemplated and decided, reluctantly, that it would only be fair to allow Megatronus to come to him on his own terms. He was a mech of action, and it was hard for the Iaconian to quell the urge to console, to apologize profusely to the ex-gladiator and ask him what would make him happy. He wondered what Megatronus had gone through, and the fact that it was more than he could comprehend made itself known. He had no idea where to start when confronting the seeker's past, or the fact that Megatronus felt as though Orion was out to make a fool of him. Orion grimaced. The only answer he could conjure up in the present moment was to give the former gladiator time and space to get a hold on his surroundings. The last thing Orion wanted to do was make the new inhabitant of his apartment feel cornered.

He got up from the stool he had sat down upon and decided to move on from this moment in time. There was no point in dwelling on it. The fact was there was nothing that he could feel now to measure up to the discomfort Megatronus was experiencing. Considering his experiences thus far, he did not blame the seeker in the least for his sharp tongue...it was all he had. The walls Megatronus threw up were in an effort to protect himself from the eminent threat, Orion, who was simultaneously the giver of energon, the provider of shelter, as well as the receiver of the ex-gladiator's loathing. Orion would show the warrior his intentions, and maybe he would find a way to get through to him, sooner than later. It pained him to see Megatronus so distraught.


	5. Musing

Orion stirred the energon in the large canister over the stove. It was infused with specific minerals to support a lacking diet. He hummed to the song coming from the speakers on the ceilings, and watched the copper infused brew on the burner thicken. This was the evening of the fifth solar cycle of Megatronus’s stay. The fighter had retired to his suite early without dinner. It worried Orion, but he didn’t want to pry—it wasn’t his place. The past solar cycles had been fairly successful in terms of letting the ex-gladiator adjust to his surroundings. Megatronus had not struck up any conversation with Orion in this time, and only spoke in one word responses when he was questioned. It was a slow process—understandably. The flier had ample reason to be weary, and Orion was ever patient. The energon, now boiling, splattered, and coated the stray digit closest to the canister. Orion hissed and waved his servo frantically before placing it in his mouth.

_Hopefully this will get him to eat something. Primus he needs it…_

The seeker had taken up one of the comfy chairs in the living room earlier this solar cycle, and sat, garnet optics transfixed on the television screen. It was a large step for the warrior. It was evident that he was reluctant to invite himself to use any of the furnishings in this distrustful stage he was going through, but the Iaconian couldn’t have been more than happy to see him _relax_ for once. It put Orion at ease. Ever since he had gone to retrieve Megatronus and brought him back home, he was unsure if it had been the right decision. It felt selfish. He didn’t want to be the only one who wanted this…whatever this was exactly. But feeling the seeker’s EM field projected no ill feelings in the moment, and it assured him that it was ultimately for Megatronus’ own good. Orion had gotten him away from the seedy boss of the pits, and that in itself was an improvement.

He retrieved a large bowl from the shelves off to the side and moved subconsciously along with the rhythmic music. He tried to imagine Megatronus dancing…he wondered how each piece of plating would shift, how the compact abdominal sinews would contract underneath the perfectly sculpted armor… _how it would feel to guide the seeker’s hips to the beat of the songs from the club down the street_. He hummed at the thought, turned off the heat, and grabbed a ladle from a drawer below. He dunked it into the steaming, shimmering liquid and filled the bowl. It smelled so good and…Orion lifted the ladle to his dermas and contemplated the savory, thick consistency. _Yes_ , the copper powder was definitely a good additive. He was just slightly proud he’d been able to conquer the recipe. It was something that having a guest to feed as well prompted. It was just a little extra to help the mech open up. Orion took the copper flakes and decorated the top of the mixture.

 _There_. The Iaconian took a towel and the bowl and made his way towards Megatronus’ room. The night hung heavily over the city, and the lights glowed in through the living room’s high-rise windows. Besides the music, the apartment was quiet. Megatronus had been in his chambers for nearly a megacycle and a half. Holding the bowl and towel in one servo, he knocked lightly on the door. There was no response. Orion debated trying again, but instead shrugged and eased the door open.

“Megatronus?” he inquired in the resonant quiet. He received no response.

_…must have fallen into recharge already…I’ll just leave the bowl next to the berth—I can’t rest knowing he didn’t refuel…_

Orion opened the door further and entered the room. He was careful to make his journey to the nightstand soundless, not wanting to awaken Megatronus. As he neared, he caught sight of the curled form on the berth. Megatronus was situated so that his backplates were to Orion. The Iaconian could hear the steady vents of the sleeping mech. It was a continuum of soft venting and the small pops of twitching metal plates. Orion found himself in a trance, tracing every visible contour of that frame, wanting to touch the sharp shoulder plates and map their relativity to the strong backplates. The covers bunched down at his hips, revealing his compact and smooth sides. Out of all of his fiercely cut armor, this was the place where he appeared _softer_. The view was charming, and Orion deemed it fit to be painted and hung in one of the many conservatories scattered around Iacon. It warmed the young mech’s spark. Orion nearly jumped out of his plating and spilled some of the broth on the floor as the mech on the berth shifted positions on the berth. Megatronus moaned and chuffed in his recharge, completely oblivious that he was being observed; the seeker rolled over, bleary from his recharge hazy CPU and clutched the pillow with one servo. He nuzzled into it, and Orion had to tried hard not to envision himself taking the strong servos in his own and feeling them, appreciating their scars and pronounced knuckles. A contented purr met Orion’s audials. When Orion was sure that the fighter was still deep in recharge, he moved swiftly over to the berthside table and situated the energon down on the towel. 

“Nnnnh, **Orion Pax**?” A velvety voice hit the air, lighting up the sensor’s along Orion’s spinal struts. The Iaconian flinched and felt his vents stall. The back of his neck prickled. _Holy Primus, why?! Just kick me, why don’t you?_ He hesitantly peeked over at the warrior and nearly cried out loud in relief. The mech’s optics were still sealed shut. Megatronus was talking in his recharge—(about him)? The mech was dreaming about him? His spark stirred at the thought. He didn’t waste any more time lingering around though. He’d already given the mech a hard enough time when he was awake earlier, he didn’t need to intrude on his recharge as well! …or maybe that wouldn’t be as rude as he thought…lying next to the warbuild, pressing in close to that compact chassis, listening to the thrum of that resilient spark…

_No! Nonono…bad!_

He was truly conflicted as he left, giving a wistful glance back at the peaceful silver mech resting in the berth. He felt the urge to run his servos over the warm plating, lay his cheek against one of those powerful servos…

_Gah?!? What—Primus I'm such a creep! Time to go._

Orion eased the door shut and shook his helm. He was all hot and there was that _feeling _that he couldn’t deny even if he’d actually been adamant about it. His fans were on the verge of making themselves known, and wouldn’t that have been a way to wake Megatronus? Orion dragged a servo over his faceplates and made his way quickly into the kitchen. He was too old for this slag—he was better than this! But he sure wasn’t acting like it…__

_Slagging traitorous systems…_

~

_The grey seeker walked into his townhouse, scratched and scuffed from an earlier confrontation. It was nothing major. Throw a bunch of young mechs together, and instigate an argument fueled by class, and pent up emotions, the clash of metal should be expected. He had gotten in a few good swings in, dented the armor of several mechs, and reveled in the crack of his knuckles against their plating all the while. It was a meaningless brawl that ended in him, and the others flaring secondary armor, huffing, and glaring at each other before parting ways with no hard feelings. The anger had shed with the retreating adrenaline. It was a meaningless brawl, nothing more, nothing less. It was foolish conduct, but it released tension that had built up over the solar cycle, and made the next one at work a little less dull. His sire and carrier had never approved of his post-work affairs, but nonetheless, it happened. At times, it was the seeker himself who instigated it. He knew his creator would have something to say about his less than optimal condition this time. It became commonplace for his carrier to drag him by his shoulder guard to the wash racks to wash off the dried energon and even out the dents. He set that solar cycle’s payment down on the counter and made his way to face the imminent wrath of his carrier._

_He walked down the hallway to the most familiar room in the home that had provided him consolation throughout his shaky sparklinghood—the chambers of his carrier, and sire. He was about to say something snarky to secure his carrier’s attention until he felt the uneasiness in the atmosphere. It was dark in the room and the heaviness of the air chased the light-sparkedness of his attitude away completely. The lean form of his winged creator stood in front of the tall windows that spanned the entire wall space. It was common for his parent to zone off, and the seeker often jibed at him for that habit of his. But this… this was different. The distracted carrier stared out across the hazy vermilion skyline, and the grey mech at the door noticed something unsettling in the way he didn’t move, didn’t even twitch a connector—he just stood there motionless. His shoulders sagged, and one servo was resting on the mech’s forehelm. It went through the grey bot’s CPU that he looked haggard in comparison to other times, and this frightened him. The seeker in the doorway was lost for words, and completely at a loss as he took in the display of despondency._

_Carrier…?_

_He moved on instinct, immediately making his way over to the silent silhouette. The seeker didn’t bother to hide the sound of his pedes against the floor or his blaring EM field—his carrier knew that he’d be home by now. His protection protocols came to life. He brushed up against his parent intentionally and waited for an acknowledgement. He felt his systems twitch and click as he endured the unordinary lengthy stretch of silence, but didn’t bother to hide his blatant concern. The lithe figure chose staring out into the cityscape a few moments longer rather than offering his attention to his anxious son. When he did turn to the grey mech, the seeker took note of the worn look in those burgundy optics. His carrier’s dermas were set in a thin line. The grey mech had known there had been something wrong when he had stepped through the front door. His parent’s EM field was laden with sorrow. It was hard to miss. The seeker might have been a head taller than his carrier, but the weight of his gaze was still had the same effect as when he was a sparkling. His plating bristled with trepidation. His patience ran thin, and he couldn’t help but press his parent._

_“Carrier…what is wrong? What happened? Give me something to go off of, please, Carrier…” The silver mech inquired, not really sure how to approach his strangely silent parent. It was enough that his carrier had said nothing to him in the first place. Now he was itching for an answer._

_Talk to me, the seeker pleaded silently. It shocked the young mech when from his creator’s dermas erupted a bitter laugh. It was caustic, and it made the seeker’s optic ridges furrow in confusion. Maybe he had been drinking again. It was short, though, and when the mech gathered himself he looked into his youngling’s optics._

_“What I am about to tell you is out of my control—but I wanted to let you know before the time comes. It is only fair to you.”_

_The seeker narrowed his optics at his parent. He didn’t like the sound of that. He didn’t like the obvious guilt exposed in his carrier’s optics. His parent was usually so sure of himself, but now he was hesitant, and it scared him._

_“…Carrier? What is it?” He asked, fear prevalent in his unsteady vocals._

_“The Kaonian Guard has made a decision regarding our living arrangements” the mech cleared his vocalizer before continuing, “They came to the conclusion that I am no longer fit to have you in my custody.” A grimace invaded his parent’s faceplates followed by a monotonous: “I am sorry.”_

_The seeker was horrified. His optics widened in disbelief, and he took a step back, as though he had taken a physical blow. He must’ve been glitching, because what he had heard was not ethical. The High Council wouldn’t allow that! This was…it was impossible, that was not what his carrier had vocalized, he was certain._

_“What do you mean 'not fit'?” the seeker blurted out, not bothering to cover the panic he was feeling._

_“I no longer have the rights to you, my son.” He said in a nearly emotionless tone that sent chills down the young mech’s spinal connectors. “The city council does. They are coming this upcoming solar cycle to retrieve you.”_

_The young mech’s spark felt as though it had been stamped out. He was left without words to back up his usually vicious temper. There was no air in his vents. He had no witty banter to throw at his parent mech as he usually did over evening energon. There was no possible way to explain the terror that welled up in his systems. His carrier lost the rights to him? How was that even possible? He was this mech’s son, his progeny! This was a joke…it had to be…_

_“How?! What happened?” He scrabbled at his carrier’s plating, trying to turn him, to see the lie in his optics, anything for Primus sake! This could not be happening to him…_

_“The Council exploited your sire’s position. Now that he is no longer present, they’re demanding that I stand in, and forfeit my place as a parent. One cannot be both, they said. It’s a direct order from the Kaonian Guard. I’ve been trying to plead for orbital cycles, Megatronus,” his carrier explained adamantly, his vocals wavering. A servo made its way to his shoulder. The older mech shook his helm. Coolant gathered in his carrier’s optics. It unsettled the seeker deeply. This kind of thing didn’t happen. His creator was no soft-sparked mech, not in the least, so seeing this…. His carrier did not weep. His carrier had shed tears once and only once, when his sire offlined three stellar cycles earlier. The younger mech took his parent’s shoulders and squeezed with shaking servos, desperate to feel comfort from his elder._

_"Carrier..." Megatronus pleaded, desperately wanting to find the catch, but there was none._

_His creator abruptly struck him across the face, leaving a sting that hurt far less than the words his carrier spoke. “Do you really think I would just sit on my aft and…and allow my only son to be taken from me? I’ve been trying Megatronus, I have been trying! They won’t listen, not even your Sire’s fragging partner is vouching for us! Oh Primus, it was all for nothing, the nights I spent protecting what we have, all the times I expressed my terror publicly at the thought of losing you…they tore your rights away from me, sweetspark. They forged documents and they were going to do so much worse—but I couldn’t let my fate be yours. Don’t you understand? I can’t lose you too, Megatronus…” his parent’s vocalizer broke, “I c-can’t!” The despaired tone was too much…it made the circumstance even more condemning. This was real. There was nothing to save him now, no powerful creator stepping forth to pull him from the balcony ledge when he got to close. No coddling mech to treat his wounds after a squabble on the street corner. His parent was the one delivering the message of his sentence. It tore apart every piece of what he had known was possible._

_Megatronus was pulled into a suffocating embrace, and he dug his servos into the armor that was so familiar to him. It was all he could do. He just held the frantic mech, and swayed back and forth with the bot wrapped up tightly in his arms. The sobs that came from his carrier were foreign. His spark reacted to his creator’s, reaching out to the frame that carried him as a sparkling, that supplied him care, and now that was falling to pieces for him. He couldn’t be anything, but crushed that this is what their life came down to: appeasing the monster that was the city government. They had taken his Sire, and now they were about to tear him and his carrier apart. For the love of Primus, when does one cross the line of too far? Would they ever consider the value of a family, or the mourning of a lost life? Megatronus clenched his denta and held his parent tightly, swearing to every deity that the officials would have to pry his carrier from him._

_They remained that way for a while. His carrier was a mess, the coolant dripping onto his spiked shoulder guard. It was wet and uncomfortable, considering it was bred from his parent’s despair. It broke his spark, but he stayed strong for his carrier’s sake. It wouldn’t do for both of them to break down. His creator pulled away slightly and cupped his son’s face. His thumb stroked across a lightly scarred, silver cheek. It didn’t help the feeling of helplessness that had taken root in the young seeker’s chassis. The grey mech shook his helm and his dermas trembled all against his will._

_So much for staying strong._

_Without warning, the carrier gathered the adolescent seeker to his chassis and held him close, as one would a distressed sparkling. It was awkward, considering the younger mech was a helm taller, but somehow it worked out. The spark of his parent’s spark, they fit together in mind and essence. The closeness hurt, knowing what was to come, but it didn’t matter. His helm rested in the dip of his parent’s neck, and shoulder, and he just trembled. He wanted last solar cycle back. He wanted the stellar cycles back to make them different, to be the well behaved mechling that his single parent had deserved, that his Sire had expected of him. Maybe then the stern mech wouldn’t have implemented so many beatings into his schedule, threatening to throw him into the streets if he didn’t get his act together. He wanted the time back. He wanted it all back dammit, and now it was too late. He clutched at his creator’s back plating and drowned in the streams of coolant running down his face._

_“I won’t leave you,” the seeker responded steadfastly. “They can’t do this to us, they can’t take and take and take…” Megatronus ground out, furious at these stupid tears, and at the Kaonian Guard to whom he lost his sire to, who he was about to forfeit the rest of his life to…_

_“Megatronus…” the deep voice of his carrier resonated._

_“They’ll have to work at taking me down—I won’t just stand around and let the Kaonian Guard crush every ounce of anything we’ve ever had!” The young mech slipped away from his creator with a hiss. He wiped furiously at the tears marring his face. “You won’t do anything they demand of you if I can help it—they have **no** right…” his optics narrowed and he snarled. “Look at us! Even when Sire was still online, the Guard was a group of sanctimonious sons of glitches who have grown strong through oppression of the lower classes! Now, they’re going to tear us apart,” the indignant mech, whose voice cracked with his belligerent emotions, was interrupted once more._

_“I am aware! I am aware of the pit I have pulled you into, Primus,” the sleek bot dragged a servo over his own stained faceplates. “I have acknowledged this, my son, but there’s only so much we can do at this point. I wanted to give you some sort of chance at redemption. They granted me the least of what I asked, and that took persistence, and time that we do not have.” The exasperated carrier sighed. “You are going to have a chance at becoming more than what I was. You can earn your freedom, I know you can. They promised me this—Megatronus, look at me.” With clenched fists, furrowed optic ridges, and an EM field filled with grief, the seeker met his parent’s optics. He restrained the onslaught of coolant pooling into his optics._

_“You will be okay because you are **my** son. You are strong, and you will triumph over the hardships you will face. There will be many where you are headed, my son, but you can handle it. There, you will find your way. I’ve gone through and secured a good place for you. It will be hard, sweetspark,” the mech pressed his forehelm against his son’s, “But you will succeed. You’ve got to prove it to them you will not fall victim to the system as easily as your creators did. I believe you can do this. Avenge what was taken from you, but do it properly. Only so much can be achieved by violence alone,” a servo squeezed his shoulder guard, “So use your wit. I never indulged in praising your brilliance, but you have it.” A firm kiss was pressed to his audial. “I love you so much, Megatronus…”_

_The violet and silver mech dissolved from the seeker’s grip, and the next thing he knew, he was left cold. Hallways glittered with bright little lights, like stars in the pitch black nights of Kaon. His carrier had once told him the stars wrapped up in galaxies were ancestors from the Well of Sparks. Not the lights mottling these chambers though…these lights were deceiving. Down here, the light from above didn’t permeate the layers of metal that separated the underground from the bustling city. Here, sets of optics tore into a mech’s plating before their servos even got a chance to touch the metal flesh. The pewter grey seeker stumbled along, fresh out of the ring. His shoulder was gouged into, deeply, but somehow he had managed to gain the upper hand in the match. His tangerine optics were brimming with coolant as he stumbled along, clenching his denta together in determination. His shoulder wound was weeping energon profusely, and he clamped his opposite servo to it. The hot fluid seeped out between his digits. He wouldn’t shed tears. That wasn’t what a mech did. Bots cleared the way for him, some sneering and some daring to reach out to clap him on the backplates, jostling his aching protoflesh. Mockery never affected him less. He just grit his dentas all the harder._

_For Carrier…it’s for Carrier and Sire…_

_He didn’t listen to the side of his CPU that told him that they hadn’t given him a choice. That side had always been a nuisance. That was the side that brought him to his knees on occasion, and he couldn’t have that. Weakness was suicide. He hardly avoided tripping over his own pedes on his way into the medical center. The doctor and a bot around his own age came to his aid immediately. The door was sealed shut once he was in, and only then did he cry out in agony. There was so much pain he couldn’t see straight. He was laid out on the medical berth. The duo worked to keep him calm—in particular the younger one, whose plating was silver with red accents. He wasn’t as experienced as the head medic, not at all. The cadet just laid a servo on his chassis armor, and rubbed soothingly while the experienced medic hooked the seeker up to an IV feed. The grey mech let his helm hit the berth with a ‘clank’. This was his life. He hadn’t even been able to process the fact that he had almost been offlined…or that he had just offlined another mech. It was surreal. He didn’t want to think too hard, or else he might fall into that state of mind he suffered after the first time he’d fought._

_If only you had been there, Sire, you’d have seen the horrors of it…the way his life fluids escaped his throat tubing after I dragged my blade across. My servo offlined another mech. It wasn’t murder (at least not in here). It wasn't._

_He knew there was a dead end in front of him. Freedom was a distant fantasy that would taunt him relentlessly. Freedom was too good to be true…it was a red and blue bot that became flustered often, fretted over him when he didn't realize Megatronus was listening, and brewed smooth energon. His ticket to freedom came in the form of an Iaconian by the name of Orion Pax._

_“Orion Pax?” he questioned quizzically, doubtfully, narrowing his optics at the uncannily kind mech. His actions were unlike anything he’d ever experienced. The bot prompted him to relax, showing him into the chair in his living room, and turned on the television while he performed slews of tasks. Not once had he encroached on the seeker's personal space after the first solar cycle. Megatronus quirked an optic ridge, and dared to scowl._

_“You’re so tense—come on, just take a few klicks. I won’t bother you, in fact, I have a lot on my schedule. If you need anything, comm me,” the Iaconian picked up a remote, and switched the channels until a news station appeared. “Here we are. I’m going to go prepare lunch, just give it a chance, alright? A lot of it's political drama, but occasionally there's a redeeming report.” The warbuild shrugged, and shifted in the plush seat. He would oblige the mech’s wishes if only it would settle his eager-to-please host—maybe it would earn him a moment of reprieve. He stole glances over at the lively bot periodically, wondering how it was that he was so open with him. He was something else for sure. Megatronus sighed in exasperation._

Megatronus was awoken by the click of his berthroom door as it shut. He shuttered his optics, and rubbed at them. Orion had been in his quarters? Why would he have been in here of all places? The seeker growled, and prepared to give chase to the mech, and give him a piece of his processor regarding privacy. He immediately reconsidered as he caught onto a pleasant scent. The fighter turned towards his berthside table and found a bowl of hot energon. He just stared at it for a moment, unsure of how to take the nicety…it was probably a form of mockery to spite him for his hard-helmed behavior. He had gone to recharge before Orion had prepared dinner. The bot’s concern was too much…Megatronus couldn’t ward of the feeling of something else clouding his loathing for his new master.

_Or “Not-Master” rather…he is a strange one…_

He shook his helm and lifted the bowl and cloth. The seeker pondered what Orion could be after by providing for him so diligently. It should have been unnerving. He should have snarled in disgust, considering it was a tendency of a mech who wanted something in return to offer such things. He hummed as he sipped the flavorful stew. It lightened the burden of the unsavory bits of his past that happened to intrude his dreams, as much as he hated to admit it. The ex-gladiator finished off the generous portion, and gingerly returned the bowl to its towel. He fell into a smooth recharge soon afterwards.


	6. Taciturn

Razor wasn’t letting this get to him. Megatronus was bound to leave at some point, so it was pointless to become this upset over something so utterly _trivial_. That word was definitely not one to describe their past…not at all. He huffed. The Iaconian definitely did not sulk, nor did he foolishly anticipate the large seeker’s silhouette in the doorway of the medical bay. He didn’t constantly look over at the medical berth (hopefully) expecting to see the warm, rouge optics that curiously followed his movements as they had so long ago. _No, of course not!_ He wasn’t some sparkling waiting for his creator to return, or one of those “wishy-washy” romantic mechs who swore they would find their cheating lover traipsing back to them! Razor slammed one of the sanitized tools in the drying compartment. His fans were sputtering indignantly and clicking, but it wasn’t because he was happy, or elated…it wasn’t anything of the sort.

_This is what you get for securing a job in the Pits, you fool_ , the medic hissed as he scrubbed away at the offending energon marring a particularly large scalpel. He had no patience this solar cycle to spare.

_This is why…you don’t befriend. Your. Patients._ The servo suffocated the sponge as it polished the tool into a glossy shine. The scalpel was flung into the drying compartment with a little more punch than necessary. It clanked, and made some distasteful sounds as it connected with the multitude of others objects, and possible the high-power fan doing the drying. It didn’t faze the lithe medic, who was too far into this funk to get out of it. His audial fins were pressed back angrily, and his fans had amped up to a higher level.

_When did you ever think that he would be down here forever? Why would he want to?! Not that he had a choice in the matter…_ the Iaconian’s audial fins pressed back further and his optics narrowed as emotions boiled within his compact chassis. His field prickled with pent up fury. He couldn’t do this right now. He shoved back from the counter and abandoned the stool he was sitting on. His patience was gone. He had to get out. Razor grabbed a needle cartridge, and his card and made his way out of his office.

An angry Razor was a sign to step out of the way. The shorter mech hissed at gladiators who failed to get the memo, and squeezed his way through. Shorter than the average fighter did not make him below average for mechs in Iacon, and he wasn’t about to let the brutes get that idea. He could pack a punch, and he had no problem administering a scalpel edge to any who got grabby. There were a few whistles as his unusually prickly demeanor was broadcasted to the gladiators lining the halls, but the doctor paid them no mind. He had a bone to pick with a certain aft-for-a-helm who always seemed to screw him over one way or another. The red and silver bot walked to the quarters belonging to his boss. It didn’t surprise him that there were urgent, wanton moans filtering through the closed door. Lesath always had been flirty when it came to Sargas, and the boss obviously had no hesitancy when the flier set out on opening his legs for him. _They were practically sparked for each other_ , the medic deduced with a sneer. Both were lustful narcissists who had no clue how to manage anything besides their incredibly active interface life. So the boss was fragging the seeker through the berth, was he?

_Too bad._

Razor knocked fervently on the steel door. For a moment the chatter in the halls went silent. They probably all thought he was crazy for approaching their boss at this morning megacycle, but the Iaconian could give less of a frag than any at this point. The noises behind the door quieted rather abruptly, punctuated by a certain seeker’s aggravated moan, and then followed the promising sound of pedes approaching. A lock clicked, and the door opened. It never bothered Razor that Sargas had a few inches on him. Not anymore. The medic’s employer looked a little less than impressed, with his flared plating radiating heat like an oven, and the silhouette of another bot in his berth. The EM field of the mech on the berth was scalding, and he glared icily at the cause for interruption to his morning fling. Razor took from the lithe figure, and deducted from the wings hiked up high in two furious points that it was indeed Lesath. He was tempted to roll his optics at the clearly miffed seeker, the burgundy mech’s fans roaring in the background. The black mech’s dermas pulled up into an amused smirk.

“What can I help you with?” The obsidian-plated bot asked, not having any shame in his disheveled appearance whatsoever. At least he took the initiative to close his panel, so Razor thought, but he wasn’t about to verify that theory for himself.

“I need a solar cycle _off_ , Sargas. I’ve worked a solid two orbital cycles with no breaks, it’s far overdue,” the medic responded, not loosening up whatsoever (and not looking down, Primus help any mech who _did_ ).

“And you think you can call the shots around here, Razor? Demanding a break was never in your contract. Need I remind you I am your _employer_ , and not another patient?”

The medic bristled. “No. You do **not**. I see you are busy…sir.”

Lesath had since crept to the end of the berth, nosily leaning, and squinting his optics to get a better view of the mech who took away his satisfaction. The seeker would tear the mech who took Sargas’ cord from his valve a new port, and make it slagging **hurt**. He had been riding his boss’s sturdy hips which had been snapping brutally against his own, thighs and wings spread wide, expressing the euphoric sensations that came with that turgid rod scraping his deepest nodes—until this fraggotry occurred. Sargas had disposed him onto the berth, dislodging him from his pinnacle of pleasure. He huffed, pissed at the fact that he had been thrown to the side for any piece of scrap metal that came knocking.

“…Sargas?” The jet inquired sweetly, if not insistently, and fluttered his maroon wings, conveying his eagerness to resume their previous activity. An obsidian servo was thrust in the air in his general direction. _Wait_. The seeker’s wing’s wilted slightly at that, and he scooted back on the berth, grumbling to himself. He hastily wiped at his profusely lubricating valve, and tucked the swollen equipment back behind his interface panels. Lesath grimaced. _Fragger. Just gonna leave me like this…_

“Just a solar cycle in Iacon.” Razor pleaded. Sargas didn’t look convinced. “ _Please_?” The medic pressed, desperate to get out. “I’ll fragging run your errands for all it’s worth! Just…hurghhh, I need it. I checked the schedule—no appointments, nothing. You _know_ the Pit ring isn’t filled for three more solar cycles.”

“You _will_ be here by morning.” Sargas commanded. The medic’s shoulders sagged in relief.

“Yes.”

“Then go. Keep your word, Razor—the press is prying, and I’ve got a group coming in tomorrow—” the medic cut his boss off before all of the words were out of his mouth.

“Right, okay, back in the morning, keeping my word, and all that unnecessary _slag_ ,” he was off down the hall before Sargas could catch him. The dark mech sighed, and shut the door to his quarters. His temperamental seeker had turned away from him on the berth, wings angled down, EM field projecting his discontent. He decided to fix that. A rumble started deep within his throat as he gripped the sensitive red wings, giving them a little helping servo to lift them up where they should be during interface. Lesath attempted to shrug the insistent grounder from his back, peeved at the audacity he had.

“I thought we were _finished_.” The prickly jet bit out. “Closed my panels.”

“Finished?” Sargas spoke in that tone of voice that sent shivers skittering through the jet’s frame. He glared back at the sneering black mech. “How about I coax them open again,” Sargas hummed, dragging his dentas lightly over rouge throat cabling, “And make you overload so hard on my spike you’ll be offline for the rest of the solar cycle? I never said you had to leave…” An indigo glossa trailed up said cabling, drawing a moan from the seeker that was trying to be angry. A clawed, obsidian servo palmed his interface panels, and a dark chuckle resonated right beside his audial.

The seeker’s vents hitched.

“ _Frag me_.

The obsidian mech growled into the flier’s neck. “Gladly.”

~

Megatronus had found that no matter the amount of contempt he conveyed in his EM field, there was no deterring his ever persistent Iaconian host. He was going soft, he swore, and he did not like it. The way Orion Pax _inconspicuously_ checked up on him when the mech thought he was preoccupied, the effort he put into making the seeker comfortable—Megatronus was clueless on how to respond to such behavior directed towards him. It was becoming more difficult to formulate the notion that the Iaconian was like the “masters” that gladiators had been purchased by in the past. Megatronus wasn’t beaten, drugged, harassed, or pressed to do things that made him uncomfortable. If anything, Orion was hesitant to confront him not about anything, and the seeker was not sure how that little fact made him feel. The ex-gladiator had built up walls that weren’t so easily disassembled once fortified, and for once in his life he found himself truly at a loss (not that he would ever admit it).

At the beginning of each solar cycle, Orion thought of the seeker first. It was inevitable that he saw to Megatronus’ needs before his own, as the mech strove to earn Megatronus’ trust (no matter how slowly). He could at least put forth effort to show the ex-fighter he was honest in his intentions. He didn’t force Megatronus to speak, didn’t force him to be around him—Orion only put pressure on the seeker to steadily consume energon, but he deemed that a necessary measure. Since arriving, Megatronus’ armor had begun to shine, and the shoulder wound had healed nicely. His posture had eased considerably in his presence, but the seeker’s EM field altered drastically if Orion changed the pace of things at all. The Iaconian realized that this process was a slow one (incredibly slow at that). It had been an orbital cycle. An orbital cycle that consisted of minimal contact, and little to no conversation between them. Megatronus was the master of grunts, and non-intelligible grumbles, with the occasional ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘thanks’ thrown in to spice it up. It wore on Orion’s spark, that he was helpless to provide adequate comfort, and atmosphere to the mech. He knew Megatronus had probably thought all of his intentions a lie to undermine him in some way or another, but he could hope that the seeker would see through his suspicion, that Orion sincerely wanted to help.

And badly at that.

He lie awake in his berth at times, wondering if he was doing this right. He was sure there was no real _right_ way to take a gladiator from their home of stellar cycles, and immerse them into a strange city in the home of a strange mech. There were odds stacked against him, and even more stacked against his new inhabitant. He desired to know what he could do for the mech, but how could he know what he was doing, wrong from right, if Megatronus was stone silent? He longed to hear that vocalizer again, in different context than a disagreement—any other would suffice. Give him a bland conversation: the kind of energon that piqued the seeker’s interest so far so that he could buy more…or the mech’s favorite literature, so the archivist could take note, and bring similar reading material back for him. _Anything_.

Desperation was what got the Iaconian to break the awkward silence that had taken over the apartment. Megatronus’ spine was sealed in wound protecting applications that, as time had worn on, had since started to slip. The ex-gladiator wouldn’t be able to rid himself of the metal wraps unless he was fairly limber (which Orion suspected wasn’t the case). Megatronus sipped at his evening energon, seemingly unaware of Orion’s inner turmoil. The Iaconian put himself out there, speaking up with an unsteady vocalizer.

“Megatronus?”

The seeker turned to regard his host, optics questioning. Orion hadn’t spoken directly to him in so long, so it was odd hearing the Iaconian’s voice as he did so. The ex-gladiator felt inclined to give a response—the damnable hopefulness in the mech’s optics was too much to shrug off. “Yes?”

“I…just noticed, your bandages are overdue to be taken off, and possibly replaced. Uh…they would be hard to remove, being located where they are on your back. I could help you remove them.”

Those deep garnet optics seemed to pierce right through Orion’s spark. He was prepared for a possible step back, and the chance of accompanying repercussions for his naivety when it came to dealing with the ex-gladiator’s unpredictable emotions. He felt the urge to withdraw his gaze under the silver seeker’s accusatory glare.

“You believe me incapable,” Megatronus set down his drink, “Of doing such a simple task.” 

Orion fumbled. “Not what I meant by that…not at all…” he scrabbled for purchase inside his reeling CPU, chiding himself for not being ready for a retort that was bound to come his way. “Just forget I even said it. It never happened.” Orion retracted his EM field tight to his plating, his face plates darkening in embarrassment as he turned away from the seeker.

Silence reigned for about a klik before Megatronus spoke again.

“Why did you offer, if not to reap the benefits of the vulnerability of my current condition, Orion Pax?” The deep vocals teased his audials, causing him to turn around. Megatronus had shifted in his chair, his fiery optics trained on Orion’s own.

Orion shrugged. “I thought I could lend you a servo in something other than making energon. I feel like I am missing a large piece in this equation, and I want to know what I can do to make it better. I want you to know I am not trying to undermine you.” Megatronus watched him with rapt attention. _Sparkling steps_ , Orion reminded himself. “I don’t pity you. I don’t want you to feel alienated. I just feel as though I am missing something vital, and I can’t uncover it no matter what I do…”

“You are an upper class Iaconian archivist. You exude wealth, prestige, and you have a visage to show for it,” Megatronus’ vocals were serious; matter-of-fact. Almost calm. “I have been in the system under the Pit boss ever since I began the process of becoming a mech. Currency is but a flitting thought in my case, and my relations differ from yours so drastically there is almost no correlation between your life, and my own.” Megatronus searched the archivist’s cerulean optics carefully, for once realizing behind the bright exterior, there was wisdom within their depths. “Alienation is to be expected here, Orion Pax.”

Orion was breathless. “I see…I really have been blind. I didn’t think about the factors that separated us, I was more focused on trying to establish connections without so much as considering that…” Orion furrowed his brow. “There was nothing before that could connect us, without mutual understanding.”

Megatronus nodded. It wasn’t haughty, but slight, and expressed an ounce of humility. “We are immensely different. It is through no fault of your own that you find it hard to relate to my past, and I to yours.” The seeker scowled.

“I could come to understand—” Orion’s optics became bright, the warmth in them contagious. “If you would be willing, that is. Not now.” The Iaconian swallowed, wondering if he had overstepped boundaries. His new living partner was doing so well. He was afraid the mech would go silent once more. “On your own time.”

“It sounds agreeable. In time, Orion.” Megatronus hummed, not completely honest about his statement, but willing to try to establish some deeper connection with his host. After observing him for the time he had been here, it had been obvious the mech’s intentions were honest (as fare as the seeker could tell). The archivist was out of his element just as much as the ex-gladiator had been, and things would not change themselves for the better on their own. Megatronus realized this.

“Yes,” the Iaconian nearly gasped out, surprised that this hadn’t taken a drastic turn for the worst. “So, about what I first said—I understand if I came off as imposing—”

The ex-gladiator looked up from his energon once more, and scoffed. “Nonsense. It would be foolish not to take up the offer.” Which translated in Orion’s processor as a resounding _yes_. It came down to Megatronus’ lack of trust, and therefor his unwillingness to go along with new situations. Orion fought back a smile, and settled in to wait until the seeker finished his energon.

~

Megatronus back was a work of art. Under the lights of the washroom, with the ex-gladiator sitting at the edge of the tub, his rugged, thick armor highlighted by the clean glow, Orion swore Megatronus was beautiful. The archivist moved slowly, firstly collecting heated towels to replace the bandages with once they were taken off, and then came to stand behind the mech. Megatronus’ angular armor was warm against his palms, and he would have kept them there if not for his promise to relieve the ex-fighter of his wraps. He took the upper edges, bringing a hot, wetted towel to the plating underneath after he peeled away the adhesive metal. Megatronus took a deep vent, and sighed.

Orion’s temperature had risen halfway through the process, and he resisted the idea of running his servos over the wide expanse of back, if only to preserve his dignity. His cooling fans threatened to click on, and he would _not_ have that happen. This was a large step forward, he wouldn’t botch it with his own tactlessness. He cleared his throat.

“Please, do not hesitate to bring it to my attention if something hurts.” Orion explained, coming upon a section in which the severity of the wound stood out. The spinal connectors had been welded, and reinforced. The Iaconian couldn’t imagine the pain that came with that type of wound, and his spark clenched at the thought of the seeker being injured to that extent.

“There is no reason I should do so. You have got servos like a medic.”

“Really…?” Orion’s spark shuddered in its casing at Megatronus’ observation. He continued to ease the bandage off, dabbing lightly at the main source of the wound with the damp towel. “How so?”

“Gentle. Meticulous. Feels mocking almost, but a mech learns to know that it’s not. Medic servos are sensitive, and able to handle delicate things. They are _soft_.” Megatronus explained. “Unlike mine. I have never had to use them for anything save for combat.” The seeker shrugged, and the archivist eyed the movement with piqued interest.

“I see,” Orion responded, taking an extra moment to rid of the last of the bandages to peer at the silver, tapered claws of servos Megatronus’ possessed. He considered his own for a nanosecond before discarding the wraps. Where his servos were crafted with smoothed edges, the seeker’s were angular, conditioned to tear. Crush. 

Orion retrieved another hot towel, and wiped down the ex-gladiator’s back once more. He longed to do more for Megatronus, but he would not push the mech.

“There. I don’t think it requires another cover, but if it bothers you, I have healing gels here. You are welcome to use them.”

Megatronus stood, his armor shifting with his fluid movements, and regarded his host cautiously (yet with an ounce of gratitude in his EM field). Orion’s finials twitched. Megatronus asked himself what the Pit he was doing as he extended a servo so that it came halfway to meeting plating (pausing hesitantly midway), before it made contact with Orion’s shoulder.

“I appreciated the assistance, as well as the offer, but I am fine.” The ex-gladiator retracted his servo (uncertainty tainting his EM field), and nodded his helm, before turning, and making his way towards the door. “Goodnight, Orion Pax.”

Elated, and shocked beyond all, Orion held himself back. His spark followed the large mech from his washroom, and he belatedly found he _did_ have a glossa to respond. “G-goodnight, Megatronus!”


	7. Misconduct

Megatronus’ education after his admittance into the Gladiatorial Pits had halted abruptly, but even he realized that the mechs and femmes shown on the vid screens lacked the intelligence, and finesse that should have undoubtedly accompanied their full education. The ex-gladiator swore he was missing something—where were the real intellects? Where were the thinkers? Where were the conflict theorists of his time who dared to challenge popular thought (or were there any)? Megatronus had rolled out of berth believing that he could feed his information starved CPU, and instead he got this trash. The sleek racer on screen seemed more concerned over his finish than the events he was broadcasting, and the femme-type…he wouldn’t start, or so help him he wouldn’t be able to stop.

They were hopeless.

Megatronus changed the channel, hoping for something promising elsewhere. Maybe he was doing this all wrong—tablets took longer to decipher, but there was something about them that said enlightening like the vid screens did not. The large seeker sighed, and rubbed his forehelm. Naive and cocky outlooks, narcissism and stupidity was what he was promised in his inability to recharge. He hadn’t even bothered checking the time, realizing that settling back in was inevitable. There was no light outside the apartment complex yet, and the city lights glittered like the stars encompassing their planet.

Orion was still soundly recharging. Megatronus glanced back and muted the sound coming from the vid-screen set just to make sure, and turned off the system. Whether it be his past of never having much downtime, or his determination not to waste precious time on trivial things, he didn’t know, but his solar cycle would not begin with these morons talking about ‘The Magnus’ New Consort’. It was all scrap.

Megatronus felt on edge. He was not sure he understood the sensation that welled up under his armor, but he supposed fresh air could quell it. He pressed upon one of the towering window panes, staring out into the endless city, the monuments of towers and the flare lights of far-off, airborne ships. There was a small ‘click’ as he accessed the halfway point of the thick pane, and he pushed against the upper portion of the metal-rimmed glass. _Softly_ , he reminded himself, not wanting to awaken the excitable archivist that would surely have a spark attack if he saw what the seeker planned to do.

The towering upper window pane swung out with a creak, and Megatronus’ optics widened. He waited anxiously, listening for the prominent pede falls that would signal Orion’s approach. All was silent. The fighter smiled in triumph, and grasped the prominent side of the pane with his clawed servos. He was surely insane, but the sent of the air and the promise of wind against his armor urged him on.

_If only to fly for a short time and return…I can be back before he wakes for morning energon…_

Megatronus hoisted himself up, unsteady and trembling in his attempt to keep quiet, and when he reached the ledge, looked down. His spark swirled giddily. The seeker glanced back at the apartment at his back, and decided to go. He would find his way back. Megatronus dove into the chilled air, and barely repressed a shout of elation. It was a decision that he should have mulled over, not made instantaneously, but he couldn’t bring himself to care—not as his armor shifted, folding and sliding back to reveal his severely neglected flight mode. He flew close to the exteriors of skyscrapers, his engines roaring, and flight panels slicked back to allow full speeds. It didn’t even occur to him that Orion’s apartment would probably be nestled in a structure similar to the rest of Iacon’s buildings—or that megacycles could feel so short. The light of the rising stars lit up his silver and violet-accented armor, and for once in thousands of stellar cycles, the mech felt as though a weight was lifted from his spark casing.

He felt free (even if it was only an illusion).

He remembered his awe at his first flight over Kaon with his carrier. The splendor now of being so far from the constricting ground, hanging from the clouds, cutting fluidly through the air like a blade lit up his spark, filling him with nostalgia. He had forgotten what it had felt like to fly. The years he had spent underground, dwelling as an unpaid fighter now filled him with loathing. Sargas had held him back in so many ways, the sickening freak using him to boost his own ego, and dampen the insecurity that ate away at his sick spark. Sargas had known not to antagonize his best fighter, and had learned quickly that Megatronus would not put up with his extra scrap, but being the boss of the pits had its upsides. He still caged Megatronus, giving him limited reign, and keeping a closer optic on him than the others. Sargas was not a fool, contrary to a good majority of his entourage. He wasn’t one to let go of something so easily either, which left Megatronus wondering where the catch in this deal was.

The seeker touched down in an alleyway after feeling he had gotten a fulfilling flight in. Megatronus huffed, making sure his vents were clear of debris, and squinted his optics at the dust he had kicked up in landing. He shook off his armor in a fluid motion, and strode down the lengthy, dim walkway towards the bright end where he spotted civilians walking along. He would make his way back to the apartment after a drink. Megatronus was well aware he was pushing the limits of his outing—he had realized as he had leapt from the archivist’s flat that he was out of his element, but the temptation was too great. He didn’t want to admit to himself that he had gotten himself lost.

Because ex-gladiators could find their way back no matter what. Fighters weren’t dependent on other mechs to lead them back (even if they had no clue where in the Pit they were).

Megatronus shook his head, and stepped out into the brightening street. He narrowed his optics, and was met with the chaotic atmosphere of central Iacon. EM fields brushed his full force, sending his sensornet into a frenzy, and his armor was brushed up against from all directions. Heat skittered up his spinal struts, and the seeker used to confrontation had to force the caustic feeling of contempt back where it came from. That would not do. This was the city. He could deal with it.

Megatronus followed the crowd, noticing too late his height was considerably above most of the slimmer, high-class mechs easing by him. He got many looks of surprise, and full on gawks as he strode casually past brightly colored citizens, waxed and polished to a shine that would shame that tacky seeker Sargas berthed all of the time. _Heh._ He was glad that Orion had assisted him some solar cycles back, removing his wound covers and dressings in order to better his appearance. It wasn’t as if he stuck out like a sore thumb or anything.

“Woah…holy frag,” a young, mint-green femme gasped, gawking up at him as he passed by. She was accompanied by a young crowd who had taken to sitting along the railings bordering the apartments on their side of the street. When Megatronus didn’t offer a glance, she followed him, tentatively. “A gladiator…I’m pretty fragging sure he’s a gladiator…” she exclaimed excitedly to one of her companions who’d caught up to her.

“Why in the Pit are you following him?” The mech spat, trying to hide the fact that he was impressed as well. Those shoulder spikes were something. The son of a glitch was decked out.

“He’s awesome.” She said, awe clear in her vocals.

“Yeah, and…? You gonna catch up to him and ask him for his personal comm line?”

“Maybe. Why not?”

Before the mech could say anything, the femme was gone, slipping swiftly through the passersby to catch up to the strange mech. Her friend hit a palm to his forehelm, and turned around to reconvene with their group. She could find her way back, he decided.

Megatronus whirled around when he felt a servo brush against his back, prepared to swing at a mech who assumed his plating was theirs to toy with. He was surprised not to see a mech his height, but rather a femme a few helms shorter than he, who looked excited and flustered all at the same time. The seeker wasn’t sure what to make of her.

“H-hi, the name’s Arcee. Sorry for scaring you, probably should have been a bit more conscientious.”

Megatronus blinked, and found his vocalizer. “You did not scare me—you merely surprised me is all. My designation is Megatronus. Do you require something of me?”

The bot shifted on her pedes, a slightly guilty expression forming on her face. “No…well, yes. I…” she bit her lower derma, realizing she was making a fool of herself. “Can I have your comm line maybe? It’s alright if not, just was wondering, you know?” She felt worse when the large mech lifted an optical ridge. “You don’t have to! Not at all. You’re a gladiator, right? I mean, you sure look like one so I assumed—”

“I am. Ex-gladiator.”

“S-so you’re not from here? I mean, obviously, stupid question, right? I’ve got to stop rambling.” Arcee swallowed with effort, and focused on the mech’s garnet optics instead of dwelling on how nervous she was.

“Indeed, my origins lie elsewhere. It is not stupid to inquire where a mech is from after asking his name, or is it? Customs here don’t resonate well with my own apparently.” Megatronus found himself perplexed. “Such information is important because?”

“Well, I know a good bar—they’ve got affordable energon. It’s one of the best around. It’s loud out here, and I feel like it would do you good to settle down for a bit, and escape the chaos of it all. Drinks are on me.”

Was this femme propositioning him? He looked the sleek bot up and down, and decided it was a rather bold move to address him, seeing the dark flush that had intruded her cheeks. _To the Pit. She’s harmless._

“Alright.” Megatronus rumbled, noting the way she lifted her helm up a fraction. “Lead the way.”

Arcee’s smile could have warmed Unicron’s spark.

~

When Orion awoke from recharge, he recognized immediately that something was off. He threw the mesh covers from his frame, and sat up, wiping at his bleary optics. He stood up, and walked to his door, and out into his apartment. He knocked on Megatronus’ suite door, only to have it creak open under his knuckles. He popped his helm in.

“Megatronus?”

Silence answered him.

_The living room—he could be watching the vid screen, or reading…he strode in, dubious that the constantly alert gladiator wouldn’t have heard him when he called his name. He looked around._

“Megatronus…?”

A sense of dread filled the archivist’s spark as he went into the kitchen, and checked the wash rooms as well. This wasn’t happening…this wasn’t actually happening to him. “Megatronus! Answer me!”

Orion came back into the living room, and felt a chill in his plating. He glanced up to see the top portion of one of his windows opened, and spontaneously he felt his spark clench.

_No…_

The Iaconian was out his apartment door in an instant, public transport waiting for him at the bottom of the building. He blamed himself for being so careless, but couldn’t help the raw feeling that welled up in his chassis at the thought of Megatronus leaving (after all, he had thought they had made progress).

~

Arcee was a bright femme that was definitely not an elite member of society in Iacon, but no doubt had a sharp processor. She introduced the ex-gladiator to a few stronger drinks, as she figured since his frame was large, her drinks wouldn’t do a thing for him. When the two-wheeler femme pushed the cups towards Megatronus, he had been unsure at first, eyeing the oddly colored drinks with suspicion.

“Strong midgrade…it’s okay, it won’t bite, big guy. Give it a try.”

The seeker didn’t look too sure.

“Have you ever drank before?” Arcee asked, sipping at her favorite bubbly beverage. The large mech considered, and shook his helm ‘no’.

“Drinks are a luxury where I come from. They weren’t important to me. Clouded judgement, and other things. The last time I had one was in sparklinghood, and it was too light to really be considered a ‘drink’.”

“Oh,” the femme said simply, realizing it made sense. Fighters probably didn’t drink like civilians did (judging off what she knew about their habits and whatnot). “Well, it’s kind of strong. I might have assumed since you’re a bigger frame-type that you like stronger, but—”

Megatronus lifted a dark indigo brew to his dermas and sipped. The substance burned against the lining of his throat, and he held back the urge to cough it back up. If it wasn’t for the resulting ‘zing’ in his CPU as the fluid hit his fuel tanks, he would have denounced the drink entirely. The taste could be better…but that feeling was too curious to ignore. 

Arcee giggled. “You like it? I couldn’t tell by the face you made. It’s kind of strong, isn’t it?”

“It tastes off, but it _feels_ pleasant. Hmm, not all that bad.”

“Doesn’t it? Something told me you’d like it. But take it slow, Megatronus, don’t down them too quickly. I promise, it’ll feel a lot better if it’s not overdone.”

Megatronus nodded, but didn’t end up heeding the local femme’s warning. His CPU felt as though it was injected with the best of serums, and he felt as though he was drowning in some sort of molten euphoria that sloshed through his fuel tanks warmly. His armor flared, releasing excess heat, and he no longer saw the little femme very well. A smile invaded his dermas.

“’M feel good…”

“You went a little overboard, friend. You may need to sit for a while. That’s okay though, I’ll keep you company. No rush at all.”

“More?” Megatronus asked, his voice hopeful. Although not a virgin to the strong drinks any longer, he was still not acquainted with the limits his frame had yet to establish on the amount he could drink. Arcee shook her head.

“No, no. No more for you.”

Megatronus’ shoulders drooped. Arcee felt a little bad for the ex-gladiator, who looked similar to a kicked turbohound at the moment. “You need to go easy on your systems—they’re not used to this. Maybe more later, if your systems burn through the first round quickly enough.”

On the other side of the bar, a visiting Iaconian native perked up at the vocals that were incredibly familiar. He nearly spat out the highgrade he had ordered as he looked around the customers, and came across a large frame, complete with spike shoulder guards and a shining helmet. The medic set his drink down on the table, and stood up from his booth. He was seeing things. His obsessive thoughts were creating visual and auditory illusions for him now. Great. He powered down his datapad on ‘CPU Related Injuries’ and subspaced the item, walking over to the seated mech. He was going to settle this once, and for all. There was no way it was him. 

_There is only one mech I know who looks like that…Primus, don’t frag with me._

The medic figured it was best to put his CPU at ease. There was a miniscule chance he was seeing correctly, so might as well just ask—

“Megatronus?” He asked lightly, convinced the mech would turn out to be a figment of his overtaxed processor. The silver mech lifted his helm, revealing half-lidded, wonderfully welcoming ruby optics and an expression that Razor missed dearly. His spark nearly stilled. “Frag me, it’s actually you.”

The next thing the medic knew, he was wrapped up in a tight embrace, surrounded by the feeling of overcharged systems and the scent of highgrade thick on Megatronus’ breath. A nanoklik later, and he had his arms wrapped around the back of the seeker’s neck, his face buried under his chin. Razor wasn’t sure if this was a blessing or a curse. His optics prickled hotly, and he swore to Primus that if he cried now he would never forgive himself. Megatronus had been his patient, frag it all, nothing more. He swallowed hard.

“Missed you, Doc,” Megatronus breathed huskily, the drinks getting to his processor. Razor just nodded, not caring that the entirety of the bar was witnessing him being crushed by his favorite fighter. It simultaneously warmed and shattered his spark entirely.

“I know,” Razor said, very aware of the seeker’s intoxication, but unafraid nonetheless. Megatronus wouldn’t hurt him (even though he was very much capable of doing so). The medic would have been happy to stay wrapped up in Megatronus’ embrace, but his optics landed on the mint green femme that sat next to Megatronus, obviously realizing that this was a personal moment of sorts. She glanced over and met Razor’s optics reluctantly, as she had felt them on her plating. She offered a small smile.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to intrude.”

Razor patted Megatronus’ upper arm reassuringly and slid from his grip. He looked at the femme with something akin to distrust, and faint jealousy. Who was this? Why was she with Megatronus, and where was that red and blue, shiny-aft that was supposed to be with him? “You are not the one he lives with.”

“No, I’m not, we met today. I took him here to get a drink, being that he’s new to the area and all.” She shrugged, and tried to look as unthreatening as possible, considering the medic’s shoulder plating had flared slightly.

“Who are you exactly?” Razor asked, thinking of a way to ease out of the situation with the ex-gladiator. In the meantime he used his rough-edged attitude to aid him while he pondered.

“My designation is Arcee, sir.” She stood to address him, and dipped her helm, as was proper for upper-class Iaconian medics. Razor grunted.

“Razor.” His servo jutted out, and Arcee took the silver servo in her own, not breaking optic contact with him.

“Would you like a drink?” The femme asked, clearly set on mending whatever balance of power she had toppled by taking the silver fighter out for a drink. The medic shook his helm, and raised a servo.

“Thank you, but I will have to pass. My friend here was supposed to be meeting with his living partner at this time. Undoubtedly, he had a good time, but unfortunately it has to end to tend to priorities…” Razor said as he slipped a servo under Megatronus’ arm, and around his back. The seeker got the message, through his haze, and smiled as the medic encouraged him to stand.

“Oh…I see.” Arcee said, barely hiding her disappointment as Megatronus stood in all of his drunken glory, and glanced at the femme. She gave a smile. “Nice meeting you, Megatronus. If you’re ever looking for something to do, I’ll be here.”

Megatronus nodded, not sure where all of his words had gone. Maybe it was because Razor was holding tight to him, pressed against his heated armor, and was actually _there_ , and not a figment of his overcharged CPU. The medic nodded to the young femme, and made his way with Megatronus out the doors of the bar.

The seeker grunted when he was met with the few stairs he had come up. Razor sighed.

“And what made you think this was a good idea?”

Megatronus stepped carefully down each one, making sure not to judge the edges of the moving steps wrong, and looked down at Razor in disbelief. Pessimistic medic, could he not see what was right in front of his optics?

“It was plenty good of an idea. Got to feeling nice,” Megatronus slurred lightly in his velvety vocals, tugging the unsure medic along, “Get to see you.”

Razor’s spark warmed at that. “Very true…” he added, not sure what to say to that. He thought his elation was one-sided, considering he couldn’t clear the image of Megatronus from his processor no matter how hard he tried. The seeker was pulling his towards a wide alleyway, uninhabited from the looks of it, and not so sore on the optics. _Huh_.

“How’d you even know, Doc?”

“Megatronus—” Razor squawked, and nearly tripped over his pedes as he was pulled onto the raised sidewalk, and into the alleyway, escaping the bustle of the passing civilians and bright vid screens. “What do you mean by that? Know what?”

Megatronus vented heavily, systems already working overtime from the beverages he consumed, as well as with excitement. “You found me.” He smiled widely, pointed teeth accenting his silver dermas. “You came to see me…” the seeker hummed and ran a servo carefully up the medic’s neck, reaching to cup his jaw. Razor blinked, and wondered how Primus could have been so cruel to him now. This was the mech he had matured alongside, and even though he couldn’t have harbored feelings as a professional, he sure as Pit had them. His Megatronus had grown in ways that he hadn’t seen in the underground, and Razor felt caustic jealousy pool in his chassis. The ex-gladiator’s armor shone, and the shadows under his optics that had been there after every fight seemed to have lightened. Those dark garnet optics staring into his own brought a flood of feelings the medic wasn’t entitled to feel—not anymore. Razor bit his bottom derma in attempt to clamp down on the the loathing for himself that bubbled up inside him. He nodded.

“I did.” He responded brokenly, not really sure what else to say. How could he shoot down the infectious happiness that extended to him from Megatronus’ field? He wasn’t going to do that. He couldn’t.

Megatronus soon felt confusion flood his CPU as Razor’s dermas trembled. In an instant, the medic had a servo to his forehelm to cover up the barrage of tears that escaped his optics and trickled down his fair faceplates. His medic was crying…but wasn’t he happy as well? The seeker frowned.

“Razor…no, don’t be sad,” Megatronus spoke softly, as though the fierce pit medic might be scared off if he moved too quickly. Never had he seen so much emotion expressed from the Iaconian, and he would be lying if he said it didn’t worry him. “Come here.”

“I-I’m fine.” Razor insisted, but couldn’t resist when Megatronus pulled him close, holding the distressed mech against his chassis armor. He knew the medic wasn’t fine, otherwise he wouldn’t be shedding tears and quivering like a terrified sparkling. He knew for sure Razor wasn’t fine when the mech released a keen and pressed his face into the ex-gladiator’s chassis.

“Don’t lie to me.” Megatronus chastised, his tone sharp, but his spark aching for the mech that had put him back together a countless number of times in the past. If only things were different. If only Megatronus could think without the interruption that the drinks provided, then possibly he could give the mech in his arms consolation. But it was too late, and he was intoxicated, and stuck trying his best to comfort Razor.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m fine…really, it’s just…” a sob escaped the medic, and Megatronus felt the urge to wrap his arms around the mech, and tell him anything to clear that pained expression from his features. “I miss you…and it’s selfish, and-and, Primus, why am I telling you this?”

Megatronus tilted his helm, and watched the upset medic with sympathy in his field. “I miss you as well.”

The medic nodded, and did something stupid. Incredibly stupid. He was losing his mind most likely, but if this was the last time he was to see Megatronus, he wanted to leave him with something. A passing memory, a departing gift, whatever the slag those poets would call it—he needed it. He pressed his dermas to Megatronus’. He prepared to be pushed away, to be called disgusting, and wrong—because that’s what his tarnished reputation provided. He prepared himself for one of Megatronus’ large servos to cuff his sensitive audial, and discard him somewhere on the street. He didn’t realize that while considering all that could go wrong, that something like this could go so right…that the seeker might moan into his mouth, and spread his thick glossa so that it swiped over his own. Fighting back tears, the medic leaned into the heady taste of mixed midgrade in the fighter’s mouth, and wrapped his arms around the seeker’s thick neck cables.

He once again wondered why the deities found it humorous to torture him, and succumbed to Megatronus’ servos kneading his waist, his hips, and drawing him closer. Razor couldn’t find it in himself to give a frag as he moaned aloud, and even less when Megatronus’ servo ended up at the back of his helm, keeping him there as the drunk seeker licked into his mouth.

~

The passion had drawn out into a disoriented, but satisfied Megatronus, and a troubled, yet sated medic. They hadn’t gotten far…Razor wouldn’t have done that (especially not in an alleyway, for frag’s sake). Razor traced shapes into the seeker’s armor, and Megatronus sighed. His CPU had cleared up slightly, and he watched the mech in his lap as he fiddled and tapped at his plating. Sorrow filled Megatronus’ spark as he realized he should have intervened. He should have done something, anything to express to the mech that there was no possibility he’d be able to carry this out. Razor was in love with him, and it was a knife to the spark to consider it. He realized why the medic had been weeping earlier, and felt worse now that he could think clearly.

In another life, he would have had Razor as a lover. The mech was a spitfire, but beautiful in ways others from his home city could never be. The Iaconian had potential to attract better mechs that could be there for him, that he could depend on, just as he couldn’t since he was rightfully owned. Speaking of his owner…that left a bad taste in the seeker’s mouth.

_Well frag…I forgot about that…_

Megatronus cursed himself one thousand times over and wished he’d had the processing power to figure things out before they got this far. He was in lower Iacon with no idea how to get back to Orion’s apartment, and a mech in his lap that he’d never thought he’d see again. The seeker sighed, and Razor glanced up at him.

“How are you feeling?” The mech asked, and Megatronus’ could nearly taste the guilt in the medic’s EM field. He didn’t like it there. What did the bot have to be ashamed of?

“Drowsy. Tired. I was a moron to drink as much as I did. How are you?”

“Hardly matters.” Razor huffed, and glanced away from Megatronus. “I apologize for my behavior. It was indecent of me.”

“An apology is not necessary.” Megatronus responded, observing the way the finials adorning the medic’s helm pressed back in discontent. “You did nothing to upset me.”

The medic seemed to deflate at that, as though he had been preparing from a confrontation, but had instead been patted on the back. “I…where is your owner?”

The word ‘owner’ resonated inside Megatronus’ CPU. Yes, that was right, he was a possession. A dose of reality never did a mech harm. “I left his apartment this early morning. He was asleep.”

“You escaped him?” Razor asked, his optics widening slightly. “Wait—what? Megatronus, what were you thinking?!” The medic hissed, tensing as the seeker tried to placate him. Megatronus chuckled.

“I did what was necessary at the moment. I needed to fly. I couldn’t stay inside any longer.” The fighter shrugged his spiked shoulders.

Razor looked unamused, but then recalled the situation they were in, and his ability to see Megatronus because he had done and left his owner—and scowled. The seeker wasn’t his to fret over like a love-struck youngling, and he wouldn’t, because he was better than that (so he thought). Megatronus, even though conditioned differently than he, was an adult mech who was capable of fending for himself. As much as the medic loathe to admit it, the ex-gladiator was in a better place now than he had been before…maybe that was why this acidic sensation kept threatening to still his spark. He wanted to lead the Menace of Kaon into the city life, guide his battle-worn claws to do what mechs did here, and teach him things based off his experiences prior to devoting himself to being a medic for the outcast fighters of Kaon. Razor cut off that stream of thought as it threatened to distract him from cold reality.

“And somehow I can’t blame you.” The medic responded, reluctant to look into the seeker’s face, in fear of what he might see. “He’ll come out looking for you if he hasn’t already.”

“I know.” Megatronus grumbled.

“What do you do? You know, every solar cycle?” Razor peeked up, his shoulders slumped. “Does he treat you well at least?”

“He does…he has treated me fairly. I feel as though leaving so suddenly was not the best choice, considering the circumstances, but not all actions I think over. It felt like a necessary measure in the moment.”

The Iaconian in his lap nodded. “That is good. I hoped to hear you were treated as you deserve, at long last.” The mech forced a smile, and felt like crying instead.

“I wished the same for you, friend.”

_Friend_. Something within the medic’s chassis warmed, and he felt as though there was a reason to look up after this moment. Megatronus considered him a friend. And he would have said something if the universe didn’t hate him, because the next moment condemning pede falls marked the end of their time together. The medic’s plating prickled hotly as he turned to regard group of enforcers staring down at them.

“You were a fragging glitch to find for your stature. Get up.” One of them barked, not amused in the slightest.

Razor’s shoulder armor flared, and he coughed out a growl as he stood, allowing Megtronus’ space to stand. Accusing optics roved the medic’s plating, and a couple enforcers noted that the mech was clearly Iaconian. The mech wasn’t hard on the optics, however his attitude might prove to be a problem.

“Well hello to you too, officer,” Razor spat. He puffed out his chassis plating.

Megatronus grunted, and noted the lead officer’s helm reached only to his chin. “So it did.” The seeker eyed them skeptically, coming quickly to the conclusion that Orion had contacted the enforcers in order to locate him. He clenched his fists, but remained stoic and for the most part in control. He was still tipsy from his earlier escapade.

“I’m going to need you to come with us.” The enforcer stated simply, his vocals hoarse and thick with authority. Razor tensed, and immediately felt as though he had no power over anything whatsoever. His own authority was null and void here, and he didn’t like the realization as it struck him. Megatronus was going to be taken from him again. It was too soon.

“Megatronus—” he voiced, unsure of why his vocals sounded so pitiful to his own audials. The large seeker glanced down at him, and had no words to spare. The serenity of the time they had shared was broken, and now there was no time left to end it without leaving it open ended. This was how it was, and the ex-gladiator was in no position to fix it. Razor grabbed the seeker’s servo, as if it could keep him there. “I…I want the best for you…be safe. You have my comm if you ever need me, don’t hesitate to use it—” and even as he said it, he knew he had no power against Megatronus’ owner. Razor was no high class mech. The enforcers didn’t do ‘fair’—they did as they were ordered by the ones in power. This was the way it was.

“I will.” The silver mech responded, and under the scrutiny of the law enforcement squad, moved on. Razor didn’t feel an iota of satisfaction as Megatronus’ frame disappeared from view. This was all wrong. He felt like he’d been cheated for a second time. It was as if Primus was taunting him, as if he was the joke of the century, putting all of his effort into the one thing that mattered in his life, and always falling short. He brushed off his armor, where his shins had scraped against the ground, and straightened up.

Such was his life.


End file.
